


I have loved the stars too fondly

by MonstrousRegiment, Pangea



Series: Space Oddity [5]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Technology, Alternate Universe - Space, Charles Is a Darling, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is a Sweetheart, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Poor Charles, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Smitten Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 60,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles, directly after the events of <em>Jupiter Jazz</em>.</p><p>Nothing will ever be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I couldn't do this without you

 

The lights in the room are dimmed to 25% so the comm pad in Erik’s hand is bright against the relative gloom, making his vision dance with spots whenever he glances away. He sits with his back against the wall, one leg pulled up to balance the pad against while he scrolls slowly through the content on the screen.

It’s quiet here on the more secluded end of the base, with no sounds coming from the hallway outside, so Erik can hear Charles’ slow and steady breathing where he sleeps curled on his side and pressed up alongside Erik’s other leg that still lies flat against the sheets, his head and face in the vicinity of Erik’s hip. There’s only a small furrow in Charles’ brow, every inhale and exhale deep and even, but Erik still keeps an eye on the timestamp in the bottom corner of his screen. It’s only a matter of time.

Twice now he’s caught himself reaching down instinctively towards Charles, with the intent of running his fingers gently through Charles’ hair, or perhaps to smooth away that furrow, before he stops himself. Charles is on his left side.

Charles shifts in his sleep with a small, involuntary sound, eyes tracking back and forth rapidly beneath their lids. Erik lets the comm pad slide out of his lap as he shifts on the bed, turning on his side to face Charles fully, though he props himself up on one elbow. Charles falls quiet and still again but Erik merely watches him, reaching forward with his right hand to gently brush silky brown hair off his forehead.

Behind him the comm pad shines in the dim light, his and Charles’ blank, empty faces staring up at the ceiling from where their computer-rendered portraits sit above the Starfleet announcement of their funerals.

 

X

 

Erik’s arm is starting to throb again, a deep ache lancing upwards from the mangled remains of his wrist in steady, bone-deep jabs all the way up to his shoulder to resonate out through the rest of his body. He doesn’t have to look to know that he’s started to bleed again—whatever quick cure the Nyrulians had applied to his arm before carting him off into their deathtrap arena had never been meant to stick because he had never been meant to actually escape and survive—in a slow, and steady ooze of red blood against white bandages. Nevertheless, it isn’t life-threatening. Not yet.

He doesn’t care, not when he has Charles leaning heavily against him, solid and alive. They huddle together on Wade’s couch, Erik’s good arm wrapped around Charles’ back to hold him close. Charles is halfway to sitting on Erik’s lap, drifting in and out of consciousness as pure exhaustion finally takes its toll, trying to drag him completely under even while he visibly struggles to stay awake, to hold on.

“I’ve got you,” Erik tells him over and over again, exhaustion making his entire body tremble. If he repeats it enough, maybe it will be true, maybe Charles can believe him. He promised Charles the same thing once, back on the Heartsteel only a few eternally long days ago, had promised that he would never let the Nyrulians, the Markos, _anyone_ touch Charles again. That promise had been broken within hours.

Charles mumbles something in response, the words slow and slurred as he loses the fight to stay lucid. It takes Erik a delayed moment to realize he’s not the only one shaking, that Charles’ teeth are chattering, and clumsily he shifts them both around on the couch, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm that flares up immediately as soon as he starts to use it. Awkward with only one hand, Erik manages to get Charles turned sideways and cradled fully in his lap, the ex-Prince’s legs sprawled limply across the cushions. Charles whimpers involuntarily at the movement, jaw locked in pain so the noise has to grind its way out of his throat from between his teeth.

“Wade,” Erik croaks on his second attempt, mouth and throat desert-dry.

The bounty hunter swivels around in his chair, his back to the console and the blank whiteness of hyperspace currently on the main screen. “Whoa, man, if you like strawberries you could’ve just _said_.”

“What,” Erik says blankly. In his exhaustion his brain feels fried, and there’s no way he can keep up with Deadpool’s strange non-sequiturs now; he can barely keep up with them when he’s fully functioning as it is.

“Arm,” Charles mutters, cracking his eyes open with what looks like painful Herculean effort, “b-bleeding.”

Erik mumbles a curse, shifting his injured arm as best as he can so he’s no longer oozing blood onto Charles’ clothes. He’s still in the whites the Nyrulians had dressed him in, though now they’re less white and more rust-colored, streaked with orange dust from the sand in the arena, but either way Erik doesn’t need to bleed on him. Charles has probably had enough of blood to last him a lifetime. “Wade, we need a blanket. Now.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Your Majesty!” Wade shoots up to his feet and skips out of the bridge, the doors closing behind him with a breathy sigh.

“Easy, Commander,” Charles whispers, his eyes blue slits as he looks up at Erik blearily. There are deep shadows of bruises circling his throat, perfectly-shaped fingerprints dark against his pale skin.

“I know,” Erik says, understanding what he means at once and reeling slightly at the implications, a fresh new wave of shock washing over him and sinking in. “I’m not a commander. Not anymore.” The Heartsteel is gone. As far as their crew, as far as the entire Fleet is concerned, he and Charles are dead.

“Erik,” Charles says, because who even knows what Erik’s expression is doing right now.

He swallows, takes a breath. He gathers Charles up closer, ignoring the pain in his arm. It’s nothing compared to what Charles has been through. “I’m alright.”

“We’re alright,” Charles murmurs, and it’s so like Charles to still be reassuring Erik even when he’s hurt and exhausted and been through a worse hell than all of them, and Erik lets out a small noise that could be a laugh or could just be the beginnings of a sob. Despite everything, Charles is still Charles and he’s _alive_.

“We will be,” Erik answers, leaning down to press their foreheads together, so relieved he aches with it, “we will be.”

As long as Charles is okay, Erik can be too. That’s all that matters.

Wade bounces back onto the bridge with something horribly magenta in color but at least looks like it can hold warmth. “Behold, a most excellent blanket woven from the wool of a three-tongued Hidlack from the snowy wasteland of Illian!”

“Behold,” Erik says wearily, for lack of anything better because he has no idea if that animal or planet even exists. He busies himself with one-handedly tucking the blanket around Charles as best as he can to get him covered, get him warm. Even though his right arm, his dominant arm, is still in one functioning piece, Erik’s still starting to feel as if he’s weighed down by lead, his movements clumsy and sluggish, his body as a whole wanting to shut down.

His stomach, he remembers suddenly, half-amazed that he could even forget. He’d never fully healed from being shot in the stomach by Creed’s phaser rifle. McCoy had patched him up, but there’s no way only a few short hours of bedrest is nearly enough recovery time.

Charles must be thinking along similar lines because he merely lies still in Erik’s grip while Erik shifts carefully around and says faintly, “We’re a mess.”

Erik makes that same sound again, which would be embarrassing if it weren’t Charles and if he wasn’t so tired that he didn’t care anyway. “Well. Good thing we have Wade.”

Beneath the blanket Erik feels Charles’ fingers curl into the front of his jacket, still holding on even though he doesn’t need to. His eyes are shut again and he lets out a long, slow breath. “Good thing.”

“Oh man, oh man, oh man,” Wade says, hopping back and forth from one foot to the other. “ _Dude_. I could totally go get more blankets and we could build a fort.”

“Not necessary,” Erik says absently without looking up, his eyes trained on Charles’ face, re-memorizing the galaxy of freckles splayed out across his cheeks and nose, the way the lashes of his closed eyes swoop low, the gentle contours of his lips. His shivering has already gone down, teeth no longer rattling in his head, and Erik can feel Charles’ body slowly relaxing against his own. For a long, suspended moment he’s afraid to even breathe, afraid that any form of movement will shatter the dream and he’ll be brought back to a painful reality where he doesn’t have Charles, where Charles is gone, where Charles is lost.

The moment breaks when Charles gives a shuddering exhale, prompting Erik to breathe out as well. _This_ is reality. He has Charles. He’s got him back. There’s no point in dwelling on the _what ifs_ anymore.

_Focus_ , Erik snarls silently to himself even though his head feels light, thoughts turning in circles on themselves, vague and nebulous as they spiral around a tempting black hole of unconsciousness. It’d be so easy to give in and sink down into sleep at last; he feels as if he could sleep for a year, two years, ten years, and still be weary. But his job isn’t done yet—he’s done everything in his power to make sure his crew is safe, that Raven is safe, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do the same for Charles.

Because they’re not safe, not here. Wade is trustworthy and dependable, certainly, and Erik already owes him multiple times over for both his and Charles’ lives, but the bounty hunter is merely their means from point A to point B, not a safe haven. Charles needs medical attention, _Erik_ needs medical attention, and as strange and flexible as Wade’s ship is, he can’t provide the level of attention they need.

He’s going to lose the rest of his wrist. The end of his arm has been wrapped tightly with bandages ever since the arena, but Erik knows what the break looks like. There is nothing clean about the way his hand was twisted off, and the remains of his wrist are mangled and mutilated, bone cracked and shattered. Whatever doctor they end up seeing—and it’s not going to be an Empire doctor, not with their faces and names painted up and down Fury’s blacklist, and especially not since they’re supposed to be dead—is going to take one look at Erik’s arm and go in for a more surgical amputation of the rest of his wrist. Wearily he wonders how much of his lower forearm he’s going to lose. Some doctors are more knife-happy than others.

And Charles…

Charles’ legs are injured, his knee probably worse than it was before. Aside from that Erik doesn’t know the full extent of Charles’ injuries. There hadn’t been time to stop and ask. He’s been tortured, there’s no point in dancing around it in denial, but Erik doesn’t know what was done to him, or for how long.

He needs to know, Erik thinks with sudden cold clarity, an icy comet slicing brightly across a dark night sky with driven purpose. It isn’t going to be a conversation that either of them will ever want to relive, as it will hurt Charles to recount what he’s been through and Erik knows it’ll hurt him to listen, but it needs to be done.

Erik needs to know, so he can pay the Nyrulians back tenfold.

“You said you were taking us to Loki?” he says, lifting his gaze from Charles’ pale face at last to find Wade. “Who is he?”

Wade’s settled himself back in his chair, except he’s sitting upside down, balancing on his head with his hands braced on either of the two armrests, his legs crossed in the air above him. “He’s a wild guy, kind of like you, man.”

“Who, in your opinion, is not wild,” Erik finds himself asking without really meaning to.

Wade considers this. “Richard Nixon.”

“Can we trust Loki,” Erik says after a small pause, though he already knows what the answer is going to be.

Wade laughs, one of his inches-from-being-completely-unhinged giggles as he kicks his legs straight up into the air, doing a full handstand on his rickety chair. “No, dude, not at all. I told you, bro, he’s wild, like you. He’s not just wild, he’s—” his voice suddenly gets deep and throaty, “— _an animal_.”

“I’m not an animal,” Erik says, pretending that the hair on the back of his neck isn’t standing on end as he and the deranged bounty hunter stare at each other.

Wade grins widely. “Aren’t you?” He opens his legs in a wide split, turning his lithe body into a T. “Tell me, bro, how many times in the past twenty minutes have you considered murdering me and taking my ship as an option?”

Erik holds his gaze steadily. There’s no point in lying. “Twice.”

Wade laughs again, kicking his legs around for a moment before crossing them neatly again. “Right on, dude. That’s good. He’ll like you.”

“Will he like me because I considered killing you, or will he like me because I don’t dismiss the action of killing?” Erik asks dryly.

“Yo, who knows with that guy,” Wade says, somehow managing to convey a shrug with his legs in the air. “His mind is like a box of cats.”

“No one is killing anyone,” Charles mumbles without opening his eyes, words slow and heavy as if they cost real effort to get out.

“I wasn’t actually considering it,” Erik tells him, swallowing. “They were just two tactical options. I dismissed them both as soon as I thought of them because the first was implausible and the second would yield no change in circumstances.” It is the cold-blooded truth. Still, he feels he owes Charles extra explanation since Wade is his friend. “It wasn’t with real intent. It was automatic.”

An automatic calculation, born from years of starship captaincy, trained to analyze a situation from all angles, even undesirable ones, to calculate odds of survival. Perhaps Wade is right after all, and Erik is nothing more than an animal, instinctively. Or maybe Scott and Logan were closer, when they called him a robot.

“I know,” Charles says, opening his eyes again, and they’re such a pale blue as they fix on Erik’s with terrible deliberation, “I did the same.”

Wade cackles again, rolling forward and somersaulting back up to his feet. “Whoa, headrush, headrush!” He shakes his head like a dog for a moment before straightening, spinning around and flopping back down into his chair again, this time sitting like a normal person. “See, my main bro has it in him to be an animal too! _You and me, baby we be nothing but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel_ —”

Erik tunes Wade out as the bounty hunter continues to sing. Making sure that Charles’ back is propped up by the armrest of the couch, he carefully pulls his good arm back from where it’d been wrapped around beneath Charles to help hold him in place, freeing up his only hand so that he can brush his fingers across Charles’ cheek in understanding.

They are fugitives now, not just from the Fleet but from the entire Earth Empire, not to even mention the Nyrulians. There are no more laws to keep them safe, and no matter who they end up coming across and dealing with there will always be the possibility of things coming down to kill or be killed. They’re lucky to have Wade right now, but they can’t rely on him forever, and they can’t rely on him alone.

But Charles is with him, Erik thinks as he watches Charles lean into the touch as best as he can. Charles understands the same things Erik has realized, and he’s ready to follow through.

Erik hates for Charles’ sake that it’s come to this, that Charles, who is the kindest and gentlest person Erik knows, who would’ve— _should’ve_ —been a brilliant science officer on a starship bound for deep space on a purely exploratory mission, and who should be far away from any form of fighting or violence or warfare, is instead at the very core of everything that has happened in the past few days, bracing himself to face the life of—what will they become? Refugees? Bounty hunters? Mercenaries?

“I know,” Erik says softly in answer to Charles’ silent admission. They shouldn’t be having this conversation now, when they’re both still hurt and exhausted and Charles looks like he’s just about strung out to his wit’s end but Erik’s not stopping now, not when he wants Charles to hear the rest. “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t do this without you.” He still feels the loss of his ship and crew keenly, because despite what everyone says— _said_ —about him, he loved his job and ship, his ability to command and the responsibility of keeping everyone who followed his orders safe. “Charles, I—I couldn’t do this without you.”

It’s hard to reconcile with that loss, resonating through the matter of his bones and flesh as sharp and loud as a quasar pulsing from across the galaxy, but to have Charles here, at his side as always, it’s worth it. For Charles, he can do this. If he had to make an actual choice, there would be no contest—he’d choose Charles every time, instantly and unhesitatingly, without second thought. They can do this together.

“You followed me across the galaxy and pulled me out of hell,” Charles whispers, his voice catching on the end, “but I would have followed you down this path from the start, Erik. I’m with you, darling, I’ll always be with you.”

Erik draws in an unsteady breath, and the pain and exhaustion must really be getting to him because he can feel wetness in the corners of his eyes—or maybe that’s just Charles, and the effect he’s had on Erik, has always had on Erik. Charles has compromised him in the worst and best ways possible, and Erik doesn’t care. Charles is his star.

“I don’t want you to follow me,” Erik says when he finds his voice again, aching in an entirely different way than pain of physical injury, “I don’t deserve that. I broke my word,” he says when Charles opens his mouth, not giving him time to protest the truth, “I swore to you that no one would touch you—not the Nyrulians, not your stepfather, not your stepbrother. I promised that I would keep you safe. I failed, Charles. I failed _you_. And for that I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

Charles shifts weakly in Erik’s lap, and together they manage to get him levered all the way up into a sitting position. He twists his torso and wraps his arms around Erik’s neck, burying his face in the juncture of Erik’s throat and shoulder, and Erik holds him in return, both his arms winding around to keep him safe and secure, Charles’ warm, solid body beneath the blanket pressed as close as possible.

“I never blamed you,” Charles murmurs as they cling to one another, the only source of gravity that either of them has left in the entire universe, “not once. God, Erik, I could never.”

“I know,” Erik answers, closing his eyes and pressing his nose into Charles’ hair. He _does_ know, and it kills him just a little. He doesn’t deserve Charles. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t hold myself accountable.” The words are like glass in his mouth, unforgiving and cutting.

“I forgive you, then,” Charles says softly, because Charles is too good to Erik, “if that’s what you need. I forgive you. And I will follow—”

“I don’t want you to follow me,” Erik interrupts him to repeat, shaking his head slightly so that Charles’ soft hair brushes against his nose gently, “I don’t want you behind me. I want you where you’ve always belonged. I want you by my side.”

Charles makes a small sound, squeezing Erik with all of the strength he has left, which isn’t a lot but the sentiment remains the same. “Yes,” he says, and Erik tightens his grip too, some of the ache easing at being able to hold his Charles, “I can do that.”

 

X

 

Erik tries to stay awake but he must drift off at some point because the next thing he knows, Wade is looming over him, humming what sounds like another old First Earth tune that Erik recognizes vaguely but can’t place, especially with his head spinning woozily as he tries to regain all of his faculties.

“Where is—” he starts to say, or at least that’s what he means to say but has a feeling it comes out a bit more garbled. Every part of him aches, stiff now that he’s finally allowed himself to stop, and his neck twinges painfully when he picks his head up from where he’d slumped backwards against the backrest of the couch.

“T-minus five minutes till we’re dropping out of warp, bro-mama,” Wade says. He’s crouched down on top of the backrest of the couch like a particularly red vulture, somehow managing to keep his balance even as he sways around to his own tune. “I sent a transmission ahead and my broski says he’s gonna show-ski.” He leans in close to whisper, as if it’s a secret with the possibility of being overheard, “I didn’t say it was you guys, though. It’s totally a surprise, dude.”

Fantastic, Erik thinks, or maybe he says it out loud. He’s not very sure. Blearily he looks down at Charles, who still lies across his lap with his head cushioned against the armrest, which can’t be much more comfortable than Erik’s position. He sleeps uneasily, a faint grimace marring his face, and Erik debates waking him up at all for a few fuzzy moments but no, Charles will want to be awake for this.

Erik’s not taking him onto any unknown ships without his knowledge and consent.

“Charles,” Erik says quietly, untangling his hand from the blanket to get a better hold on Charles again in case he startles. Fortunately Wade chooses to hop back down off the couch and somersaults back over to his chair, leaving them in relative peace. “Wake up, Charles. I’ve still got you. It’s me.”

Charles makes a low, pained sound somewhere in the back of his throat, and it takes him a few moments to get his eyes open, foggy and disoriented. Erik feels him tense, as if bracing himself for the worst, but as soon as he recognizes Erik he immediately relaxes again with a shaky breath. Erik’s heart twists.

“We’re dropping out of warp soon,” Erik tells him, grounding him in the only way he knows how to right now: with information. “Wade’s friend Loki is coming to meet him, but he doesn’t know about us yet. Think you can sit up?”

Charles’ eyes have drifted closed again by the time Erik’s done speaking but he nods in answer, and Erik gets the impression that he’s mustering up what little strength and energy he has left. He isn’t going to last much longer until exhaustion shuts his body forcibly down, Erik thinks as they clumsily maneuver themselves around on the couch, pushing the blanket aside and rearranging their limbs. What little color remains in Charles’ face drains away completely when Erik helps him move his legs so that his feet rest on the floor again, his grip on Erik’s shoulder going knuckle-white for a moment, drawing in a sharp, aborted breath.

“Breathe out,” Erik orders gently. He doesn’t dare touch Charles’ knee, instead lifting his hand to cover Charles’ and squeezing tightly, giving him a different source of pain to focus on. They need a medbay.

It’s another long moment before Charles does, leaning slowly back against the cushions. Erik marvels at the iron-willed self control Charles exhibits, because it’s very obvious he’s only just barely swallowed back a scream. “Your arm,” is all he says through gritted teeth, hazy gaze focused on Erik’s injured arm that he’s been holding out awkwardly to the side, like a bird with a broken wing.

Erik glances down. The bandages are soaked completely through with blood now, red staining white. Oh. No wonder his head feels like it’s floating several feet above his body.

“Just a little longer,” he says, and he doesn’t know if that’s supposed to reassure Charles or himself more. They’re seated side-by-side on the couch again instead of Charles sitting in his lap, but Erik leans over anyway to press his lips briefly against Charles’ temple. “Almost there.”

Where _there_ is, Erik doesn’t even know.

Wade’s ship slides neatly out of warp, the blank whiteness outside reverting back to the deep black of space, dotted with bright points of light. They don’t appear to be near any particular star system, instead cruising through space alone and apart. Erik wonders where they are, and then wonders if he even really wants to know.

They aren’t alone for long. They haven’t even gone a lightyear according to Wade’s instruments when another ship drops out of warp in front of them, gliding forward like silent death. Erik tenses, sharply recalling the long line of Nyrulian ships moving in practiced formation, but Wade hardly bats an eye and slows their forward trajectory, so Erik takes that to mean that this is Loki.

Loki’s ship is an old model, sleek and simple, long straight lines in polished silver metal and aggressive, masculine angles in dark green. Aerodynamic would be the word of the day, if anyone cared to explain why a starship would need to be aerodynamic; it presently escapes Erik’s comprehension, although, in the interests of full honesty, he must admit it is very aesthetically pleasing. For all its straightforward elegance, there is a certain dangerous air to it, in the sharp outstretched wings, the high arching tail with the powerful warp engines. A ship built with a very clear purpose: quick, savage destruction.

Executing a flawless mid-flight bank and turn, the ship glides to their side and aligns perfectly with Wade’s ship coupling mechanisms. Within moments, the ships are docked safely together and the connection tunnel is deploying.

Wade whistles cheerfully and claps his hands together. “You’re in for a treat, your highnesses.”

The door slides one with its usual melodic, diaphanous sigh of pleasure. The man that walks in could rival Fury for theatricality of costume, although there is something much less sober and considerably more threatening in his choice of leather outerwear. For one, his overcoat is clearly designed to allow freedom of motion, which suggests Loki, whoever he is, tends to expect to be met with violence where he goes. A bad sign, certainly.

Also a bad sign is the flash of light catching on the metal hilt of a knife, concealed out of the way beneath the flowing leather of the coat.

“Loki, friend, bro!” says Wade, jumping to his feet and moving in to hug Loki.

Loki, to Erik’s everlasting astonishment, receives the hug good-humoredly, and even pats Wade on the back, companionable and fond.

“Wade,” he greets in a low murmur, curious, sharp eyes landing on the couch. His black brows arch, and he leans back from Wade’s embrace with a slow blink. Then he gives Wade a long, measuring look.

“I need your help, dude. My bros here need a place to lay low for a while.”

“A while being, for the sake of full disclosure, forever? Or do you perhaps at some point intend to rise from the dead like ill-dressed messiahs?”

Erik wishes he could stand with the certainty he won’t fall over. Loki seems like the sort of man you meet on your feet, back straight, shoulders squared; not sitting on a couch, blood-streaked and filthy, fingering the noose at the end of your rope. Men like Loki feed off weaknesses like plants off sunlight and soil.

“You know who we are,” he says, for outspoken confirmation, because some things just need to be said.

“I know of you, yes,” says Loki, ducking out of Wade’s arms to come closer to the couch, long elegant strides like a Telmarian jungle cat, face curious and intelligent but betraying no emotion. If there is concern or compassion for their wounds, it’s not showing. “Although I must admit your friendship with Wade is somewhat puzzling.”

“They love me, man!”

Loki looks over his shoulder at Wade, mouth curling. “Of course they do, brother. Who doesn’t? But,” he turns back to them, head tilting inquisitively, “the question of the hour is, what do you need from _me_?”

Erik looks him straight in the eyes, summoning the rest of his resolve to show in his haggard face.

“We need medical attention and a place to be safe while we heal.”

“While you heal before what?” Loki asks slowly, quietly, and the knife-edge of his eyes is already sharpening with understanding, too quick by half.

Erik says nothing, jaw set. Loki stares at him for a long moment, and then, slowly, quietly, as he seems to do everything, he starts laughing. It’s a low and distinct sound, clear like glass, that emerges from his throat before his lips begin curving into the laughter.

His laughter tapers off as he turns to look at Wade, who’s now perching on the arm of the couch opposite Erik and Charles, idly twirling a knife in his hands like it’s made of wood, although Erik recognizes the glint of light on Galomere metal. Sharpest, hardest metal in the universe.

“Pick-pocketing me again, Wade?” Loki asks affably, reaching over to flick Wade right between the eyes. “I thought you’d like that one. As for you two broskis,” he says, smile curving in a way that would make a small man shrivel up and die. “Medical attention and a place to be safe while you heal. Yes...I do believe I can arrange that.” He pauses for a moment, blinking at them. “If you can drag yourselves to my ship. I am certainly not carrying you. I’ll wait, do take your time.”

“What do you want in return,” Charles says, managing to sound surprisingly cold despite the heavy exhaustion in his voice. Erik’s temper, legendary for its short fuse, is trying to spark at Loki’s clear condescension, but the reality of the matter is that he’s too tired and too distracted by pain to be able to muster up more than vague annoyance.

Logan and Scott, he thinks dully, would be having a field day.

The curve of Loki’s smile turns wicked, eyes gleaming like the metal in Wade’s nimble fingers. “What do I want,” he repeats slowly, as if musing aloud while mulling over his options. “I daresay you’re already... _interesting_. Everyone in the galaxy, it seems, wants a piece of you right now, and put a lot of time, effort, and energy into ensuring that you’d fall into their hands. But then you went and died—which, nice trick with Wade, I can admit that I’m a bit miffed I didn’t think of it myself—and now here you are, fallen into _my_ hands, very much _alive_.”

“And?” Erik growls.

“And I think I quite like knowing something everybody else does not,” Loki answers, deeply satisfied. “I make it my business to know more than everyone around me at any given point of time, so this kernel of information alone is a nice down payment.”

“Information that you’ll sell to the highest bidder as soon as it suits you,” Erik says, narrowing his eyes. The urge of wanting to be up on his feet returns, because facing Loki and having this conversation while sitting on a very displaced couch is starting to feel more and more like standing in quicksand.

“Are you asking for a guarantee for me to hold my tongue?” Loki lifts a hand to press against his breast, adopting a visage of appearing shocked. “And what will the disgraced War-Prince do if I send a transmission to the esteemed Paladin Fury?” He drops his hand and his tone goes cold and flat. “Not much, judging by the way you currently resemble back-planet roadkill.”

“You’re not going to sell us out.” Charles, Erik thinks, has stared down things far worse than an overconfident mercenary and it shows in the way he regards Loki now, blue eyes like ice chips left behind in the wake of a comet. “You enjoy knowing more than Fury does too much, especially since we’re in such high demand. You’re not going to tip him off about us unless you absolutely have to, and the only case where that would be necessary was if he somehow pinned you down, which you have no intention of ever allowing to happen.”

“I could always go the other way,” Loki answers coldly, “and have a little chat with the Nyrulians.”

“You aren’t going to go to them either,” Charles answers, matching his tone, “you aren’t going within several billion light years of them at all if you can help it.”

“Confident of that, are you?”

“I am,” Charles says quietly, “because you mentioned Fury first, not them. They’re after you too, aren’t they. Our worth to them isn’t enough anymore to cover your own, isn’t it, now that the Heartsteel is destroyed.”

Even Wade is silent, looking back and forth between Charles and Loki as if watching a tennis match. Erik tries to ready himself, in case he needs to throw himself between them if the mercenary snaps.

“Tch.” Loki is the first to look away, a painful smile that’s more akin to a grimace curling at his lips again. “Very well. You pass. I’m not jesting about carrying yourselves to my ship, though. I’ll be waiting. Ta, Wade.” He turns and walks off the bridge, passing through the doorway with a soft rustle of leather.

“Glorious exit, dudebro!” Wade calls after him, jumping back up to his feet and gesturing after him grandly.

“An animal,” Charles says to Erik, and then passes out in a dead faint. Erik has to scramble to catch him before he pitches forward off the couch entirely, pulling Charles against himself again.

Wade claps his hands once and says, “I’m off to shower. I’m all covered in dust from that wild storm on Jupiter. See you around, crocodiles!”

“Wade,” Erik says, and the bounty hunter pauses. “Thank you.”

“Yo man,” Wade says, flashing him a double thumbs up, “any time, Honorable War-Lord.” He pauses, growing oddly solemn. “Take care of Chuckie.” Then he bounces out of the room, leaving Erik alone on the bridge with Charles.

Erik allows himself this: one moment of crushing heartbreak and doubt. He allows it to last the time it takes for him to breathe out, and then inhale.

Then he sets his jaw and grips the backrest of the couch tightly with his hand and pushes himself up to his feet, twisting around as soon as he’s able so he’s leaned forward over the couch instead of bent backwards. His head spins for a moment, the ship feeling more like it’s at sea rather than in space, and Erik’s chest and ribs give a painful twinge that makes him gasp aloud. Spots dance across his vision and for a brief wavering moment it’s tempting to dive forward into unconsciousness but no, not yet, not yet.

He’s suddenly glad that Loki has already stalked off to wait and isn’t here watching him struggle to stand.

In the absence of Erik’s body Charles has slumped slightly to the side, utterly limp. When Erik feels steady enough to stand on his own without support, Erik takes his hand off the couch and reaches down to check Charles’ vitals, bracing one knee on the couch. Charles is out cold but still breathing, his heart beating sluggishly but reassuringly steady.

Erik loves him so, so much.

It’s probably for the best that Charles is unconscious, because Erik has no doubt that the way he has to re-situate him on the couch so that he’s lying out flat would hurt him, especially when Erik has to pick up his legs one at a time. Erik loathes the thought he’s the one causing Charles more harm but he has no other choice, not if he wants to get them both onto Loki’s ship.

He stops to rest for a moment, panting, just this much activity making him feel as if he’s run miles. The corners of Charles’ eyes are tight even in sleep, his pale lips pressed tightly together. Erik leans over him and breathes, waiting for his vision to settle again.

Picking up Charles isn’t hard because of his weight, though Erik almost wishes it was. The ex-Prince has lost a lot of it, his once solid and fit body almost feather-like in comparison to what Erik can dimly recall from the last time he’d held Charles, warm and happy in his arms. Lifting him is far too easy, but getting into position to do so is an entirely different matter. Erik’s only missing one hand but he’s swiftly discovering it makes all the difference in the world to have two. The last thing he wants is to drop Charles, because causing him discomfort by shifting him around is one thing, hurting him even if by accident is unforgivable.

He remembers with brutal clarity the sound Charles had made when they’d all been knocked off their feet on the transporter pad of Wade’s ship during their flight from Geonosis to the Heartsteel. It’s amazing he’d been able to get back up again.

In the end Erik crouches down to slide his injured arm beneath Charles’ knees, sliding Charles’ legs as close to the crook of his elbow as he can even though his whole arm still throbs, and then gets his other arm and remaining hand up underneath Charles’ back, lifting him up to carry him bridal-style. It reminds him of the first time Wade had brought Charles safely back, when Erik had carried him up from the Heartsteel’s main hanger to the personal quarters deck, though that time Charles had been a little more awake, not limp and drooping in Erik’s arms as he is now.

Erik feels, however, that he’ll crumble under the weight; that his shoulders will give and he’ll drop Charles, noiseless and limp on the deck. The mere thought of it is horrifying enough to straighten his spine, and he inhales, bracing himself for the nearly unbearable pain in his arm and ribs. Charles’ head falls lightly to the side, slow breaths fanning out across Erik’s throat. It gives Erik that bit more strength he needs, the last encouragement to start walking towards the docking doors.

It’s slow going and painful. Keeping his left arm bent and holding weight requires constant concentration and an effort of will Erik might have previous doubted himself capable of. Every breath brings bolts of pain lancing through his ribs and spine. Moving his legs in a coordinated enough manner not to crash into walls and run into the docking bay doorways demands a moment of pause and mental organization.

It’s only one meter from doorway to doorway, but the docking bay is made of flexible material, not solid ground. Erik eyes it with trepidation, almost certain he won’t be able to make it. One wrong step and they’ll overbalance.

Just as he is inhaling, bracing himself, Loki appears in the opposite doorway, brows arched impatiently.

“I am aware I suggested you take your time, but this is…” he trails off, brows quirking as he stares at Erik, with Charles limp as a ragdoll in his arms. He leans against the doorway, shaking his head slightly. For a long moment, Erik thinks he’s going to make some sort of sarcastic comment the likes of which only unpleasant men with little affection left to spare for anyone but themselves are capable of.

But what Loki does is lift his head and exhale, like he’s about to perform a chore he’d rather left undone. “Now would be the perfect time to learn to ask for help, Lehnsherr.”

Erik knows what he’s offering, and it makes a bolt of fury race hotly down his spine. He opens his mouth to snap that he can do this, he doesn’t need Loki’s help—but Charles shifts, and a small, pained noise escapes his lips. Erik swallows back the anger, crushing it between his teeth like hard candy. Loki isn’t the kind to offer help free of charge, Erik can tell, but there is one more incontrovertible truth that Erik must bow to: his strength is leaving him. He can’t carry them both, not now, not through this unstable little stretch of distance.

If he falls, it’ll hurt Charles worse than it’ll hurt him.

He can do this. For Charles.

“I can’t carry him,” he says hoarsely.

Loki nods, expression wiped of any emotion, and strides forward like what he’s about to do has very little importance. Still, for all his apparent cold disinterest, his arms when he takes Charles’ weight are gentle enough. He gestures with his head for Erik to follow him, and his steps are measured and even as he walks, so that he looks like he glides. Charles doesn’t even sway. There is something very unsettling about Loki’s superb body control; Erik isn’t sure he’d like to take him on single combat on a good day, let alone in this condition. He hopes Loki won’t betray them.

It’s a long walk to the small medbay in the ship. The hallways are streamlined white walls with green details here and there, elegant and understated. This is an outrageously expensive ship, no doubt about it. Ships this size designed to be crewed by one man usually are, but the aesthetics on this speak of a price higher than Erik can easily calculate.

The medbay itself is impressive for a ship this size. Six biobeds protrude from the walls, their accompanying medical equipment expensive and state-of-the-art. Holograms and diagnostics start running on Charles as soon as Loki walks through the doors, the computerized medical systems racing. Nearly all charts dive immediately to red. Loki murmurs something, and the alarms mute at once. One of the biobeds ascends so Loki has only to lean slightly to stretch Charles on it.

“Take a seat,” the mercenary says distractedly to Erik, snapping his fingers in the air so several screens descend around Charles’ bed.

Erik gingerly sits on the edge of the next bed, nearly sobbing with the relief of seeing someone care for Charles, even if he does perfunctory work of it. Holograms spring up around him, too, nearly all of them focused on his right arm. Erik has a chance to see the damage, live and clearly.

His wrist joint is gone entirely. The radius and ulna in his arm fail to meet at the point where the carpus bones should be. Without the anchoring of the hand bones, they have drifted slightly apart and Erik can see the damage motion and inattention have done to the flesh around them.

The bottom of the ulna where the carpus ought to be is jagged and shattered. Bone shards sharp as scalpels stab out from the otherwise graceful curve of bone, ugly and stomach-turning. The trauma of the wound shows fractures all the way up to the middle of Erik’s forearm, although he can’t tell if it’s bad enough to need clean amputation.

“He’s as stable as I can make him,” Loki says suddenly, turning towards him. “I don’t dare do anything important, so I’ve just sedated him. I’m wary of doing more harm than good, given his condition.”

Erik nods, mute with horror and gratitude. Loki studies the screens around Erik with the same sort of detached efficiency he looked at Charles’. If he is capable of emotion, he’s not wasting it on them.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

Erik grits his teeth, fury washing through him as quickly as he breathes in, sharply. “ _Yes_.”

“Good,” says Loki, arching his brows. “If the nerves are still there, you might be able to afford a mobile prosthetic.”

He moves closer and takes Erik’s elbow, stretching the arm out in front of him. The computer’s holograms whirl around it, and Loki says something in an odd tongue as he starts, carefully, removing the bandages.

“Where will you take us?” Erik asks, almost stuttering the words through the haze of maddening pain.

“You need safety and specialized medical attention,” answers Loki. “There is only one species in the Universe who takes in refugees and cares for them, free of charge.”

Erik feels a wave of cold through his body as he stares at Loki’s profile. “You’re taking us to the Gandorians?”

“I suggest you come up with believable false names. They’ll take you in and care for you, but they’re not the secretive kind. Never needed to keep secrets, you understand.”

The last of the bandages fall away. What is at the end of Erik’s forearm is—not pretty. Something white and sharp, glistening shows between the ruined, angry-red flesh. Blood splatters the deck and Loki’s boots. The mercenary hisses, tilting the arm up. The computer shoots out an alarm. Two mechanical arms materialize from god knows where, and start moving along his arm. Erik feels the prickle of a needle on the inside of his elbow, and then, blessedly, his arm goes numb, and he gives a sharp exhale.

Loki taps a wall above the bed. A tray slides out, and Loki busies himself wrapping something clear and blue-hued around Erik’s arm, something a lot like plastic wrap. Right in front of Erik’s eyes, the material turns violet and swells, absorbing quickly what comes out of his arm. It stops when it’s about three inches thick. Cold relief travels down, all the way to Erik’s shoulder and chest.

“Temporary solution,” Loki mutters, releasing the arm. The mechanical claws catches it and steadies it as Erik turns and stretches on the biobed. “It’ll keep you stable until you can get that properly looked at.”

Erik nods. Whatever he’s been injected with is quickly making him drowsy. He’s not sure he wants to fight it, although the idea of leaving Loki to his own devices unsupervised unsettles him. “How long will we travel?”

“Four hours, just about. There is a refugee compound in the Andromeda quadrant.”

“I don’t know anything about the Gandorians.”

“There isn’t much you need know,” Loki replies, tugging a blanket somewhat carelessly over Charles. “They are a democratic republic. Every ship, compound or asteroid works as an individual unit. The females are taller, and no one wears clothes. I hope you don’t mind dangling genitals. You’ll be getting an eyeful of them.”

Erik manages enough strength to catch Loki’s elbow as he turns to leave. Loki twists immediately free, arching a disapproving eyebrow.

“Charles,” he starts, and the words tangle in his throat, painful.

Loki exhales. “People have been known to survive Nyrulian torture. The Gandorians will know what to do.”

Erik drags his eyes open, something that takes a great deal of effort, and stares at Loki through heavy-lidded eyes.

“How do you know?”

Loki shakes his head slowly, eyes studying him with the same warmth as deep-space ice.

“I’m certainly still walking,” he settles on at length.

Questions crowd Erik’s tongue and throat, but by the time he manages to get the words for the first one in the right order, Loki has left the medbay.

 


	2. We're okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for a brief description of disorientation and a panic attack.

 

When Erik wakes again, the absence of pain is bewildering. As his vision clears from the blur of deep, medicated rest, the computer pops up holographic diagnostics above his head, displaying both his own condition and the monitoring of Charles’.

Stable. Sedated to discretion with caution.

“Can I get up?” Erik asks, voice a broken rasp.

“Prolonged rest is recommended,” the computer answers. “However, within bounds, you are an ambulatory patient. Pilot is in the cockpit.”

“How long did I sleep?” he starts sitting up, slowly, slowly. The pain continues to be absent. He exhales in relief once he’s upright, letting his arm rest across his lap. The material that’s been wrapped around his wrist is hard like plastic, and feels warm to the touch. It’s also gone an opaque dark purple.

“Four hours and twenty-one minutes, sir. We have arrived at the intended destination and await further action.”

Swinging his legs over the edge of the biobed, he stares at Charles. He’s deeply asleep, looking more peaceful than he has since Erik got him back. His biobed has displayed a hard domed cover over his lower half, to protect his legs and keep him stable in case he shifts. It’s distressing to think that all of this is the equivalent of field medicine for what Charles needs. Loki’s medbay has high tech considering the ship it’s in, but this is still only the most rudimentary care for Charles. He will need _so much_.

Erik slides down carefully to his feet, and is amazed when his body responds, not with his usual sharp control, but at least well enough that he doesn’t stagger. He feels rested and fresh, after a fashion. His stomach is hollow with hunger, but he can ignore that.

He leans down to press a swift, tender kiss to Charles’ forehead before he leaves the medbay. The wrap around his wrist is oddly light, and he cradles it close to his belly in case it’s fragile. He doesn’t want to risk cracking it.

The bridge is simple enough to find, with this straightforward design.

Loki is sitting on the pilot’s chair, leaning back, with his legs thrown over the console and crossed at the ankle. He’s taken off his long overcoat and is down to a black shirt and pants of a material not quite leather, yet not quite anything else.

“Awaiting further action?” Erik asks as he strides inside.

“You looked like you needed the sleep,” Loki answers calmly, looking at him over his shoulder. “I also thought you would rather like to have a look at the outside, before I take us in.”

Erik looks at the main viewscreen.

Before them rises one of the legendary Gandorian refugee compounds, a massive space station with at least a hundred decks of living quarters. Colossal floodlights light the glossy outside, painted a deep, rich green, where the crest of the Democratic Republic of Gandor glows in a warm, regal gold. Beneath that crest there is another, smaller, that marks this station as a refugee compound. Two huge Gandorian Destroyers hover nearby, alert bodyguards to the compound.

Not far, one of the Gandorian private home stations where no other species are ever allowed crouches near a dark, small planet. Bright golden lights can be devised through the rolling storm of the surface, where harsh winds drag silt and smoke in furious tornadoes.

They’re terraforming it, Erik realizes with a jolt. Probably intended to house refugees so the compound can move on to a new quadrant.

Erik has never seen something so large and mobile in his life, barring what was once the Hejmo. He knows for a fact these compounds pack a punch if they are attacked, even without the aid of the Destroyers that always flank them. The Gandorians hope for the best, but certainly prepare for the worst.

“This is Uriarte III,” says Loki quietly. “It’s one of the biggest compounds, and the newest. I brought you here for your medical needs, but also because it houses thousands of refugees of every species. Hiding here will be simple, if you are smart.”

“What is the inscription on the side?” Erik asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Something like the old Earth Hippocratic Oath. I can’t translate it directly, no one but the Gandorians speaks Gandorian. It’s forbidden.”

Erik takes a seat in the navigator’s chair and shakes his head slowly, in awe. “How do they maintain these stations?”

“Well, for one, they have no pesky issues dealing and trading with every species,” answers Loki, sitting up so he can start the engines and the ship can begin moving. “For another, considering they are a species that achieved space travel thousands of years ago and had to move on due to their planet dying of old age, you would think they have quite enough savings to subsist and share.”

A small, melodic whistle echoes across the bridge. Loki combs back his hair with his fingers fussily before tapping something. The main viewscreen dissolves into opaque black, and then reforms into the image of an elegant, black-pelted Gandorian. Its lupine head and sharp eyes study them for a moment. A rumble of a sound comes from its throat. The viewscreen starts showing letters—subtitles, Erik realizes.

_Loki Odinson. Welcome back._

“Thank you, Ucca-Kuteh,” Loki says, sitting with his back straight and shoulders relaxed. “I bring you friends in need.”

Those disquieting golden eyes turn on Erik.

_You will keep the peace._

The _or else_ hardly needs to be typed.

“Yes,” Erik manages. “I swear it. My partner needs urgent medical attention. Please.”

_You will dock in hangar seven. Aid will be waiting. Peace be with you._

The screen goes dark again. Loki starts piloting the ship, carefully maneuvering well in sight of the Destroyers, until they spot hangar seven and head that way.

“For a peaceful species they sure have a lot of weapons,” Erik mutters.

“How else do you _keep_ the peace?” replies Loki, arching a brow.

Fair point.

Hangar seven is, for lack of a better description, an emergency bay. A team of medics is already waiting as Loki glides the ship to a perfect landing. The computer wastes no time directing them to the small medbay, and they waste no time greeting him or Loki as they pass at a trot, long legs eating up the distance.

Only one of them hangs back, ducking its head in the relatively small corridor—Gandorians are _tall_ —to speak with them. Around its neck hangs a chain with a small silver device. A universal translator. The voice it speaks with is melodious and decidedly ungendered. It doesn’t need to suggest at a sex; Gandorians really do use no clothes, and Erik can see this one’s penis between his long, powerful legs. There would be no point for clothes, in any case; their pelt is thick and glossy, obviously warm enough for space.

“I am Turuk-Altiv,” the translator says. “I will be your primary care provider. What may I call you?”

“Max Eisenhardt,” says Erik, carefully not flinching when Turuk-Altiv reaches for his arm. The Gandorian’s hands are long and his fingers have more joints than a human’s. Despite their thinness, the strength in them is undeniable. “My partner is Francis.”

Turuk-Altiv nods. “Go. I will see to you in the hospital wing. You require nothing?” This last part is directed to Loki, who shakes his head.

“I only brought them to help.”

“Your actions speak well of you, little brother. Peace be with you.”

Loki nods. Erik look at him, but the mercenary isn’t paying attention, already turning back to his bridge. Turuk-Altiv is turning Erik away towards the gangway so leave the ship. Erik goes, because struggling is pointless, and he’s not sure he has anything else to say to Loki. He doesn’t appear to want to be thanked.

The four Gandorians that had disappeared into the ship return with a hovering biobed of a strange, sleek design, where Charles is already laid on his back in a protective shimmering shield. Erik tries to go to him immediately, but Turuk-Altiv hold him back, gently, by his uninjured arm.

“Francis will live. You are no good to him now, little brother. Come with me, and we will see to your own wounds.”

Erik knows. He _knows_ he’s right, that he can’t do anything for Charles right now, that he knows nothing of medicine and would only be in the way. But his body struggles against Turuk-Altiv’s grip without his conscious decision, and he strains to follow the biobed.

“I can’t leave him,” he tries to say, desperate, and Turuk-Altiv nods in tender understanding.

“You will see him soon. I promise you. Would he not be happier if you were well?”

Erik exhales. He’s trembling, he realizes, and his legs feel weak and unsteady. He watches mutely as Loki’s ship turns and then leaves the hangar, disappearing through the curtains of shimmering force field that keeps this hangar pressurised and full of breathable oxygen.

“Calm, little brother,” Turuk-Altiv says, leaning down to look Erik in the eyes. His are almond-shaped and silver-blue, lovely against his deep russet-colored pelt. “You are safe. You have made it.”

Erik breathes in, breath catching—and then blacks out.

X

Charles comes to with a painful gasp, lungs expanding too fast to full capacity, eyes shooting open wide. He’s immediately blinded by a bright overhead light, reflexively jerking upwards into a sitting position—or tries to, only to find that he’s been strapped down in place.

His head is already jumbled, a hazy mix of confusion and dull pain, but as soon as it registers that he’s being held down, any hope of attaining rational thought is thrown forcibly into an e-pod and jetted violently out and far away. His lungs contract and the sound that escapes him is somewhere between a gasp and a sob, thrashing his body against the restraints.

Some form of medbay swims into view, glimmering medscreens rotating around him and a high-pitched beeping sound reaches his ears but he doesn’t know what it means or where he is, because this is not the Heartsteel, the Heartsteel is gone, and _where is Erik—_

An alien face appears overhead, speaking to him in a strange, guttural language Charles doesn’t understand, which only makes him recoil and fight harder, his heart pounding harshly against his chest. All he can register is _not Nyrulian_ , which is a small comfort, but it doesn’t mean much in the face of the overwhelming tidal wave of panic that swamps him, because he doesn’t know where he is and the last time he woke up strapped down to a table—the last time he—

The beeping has turned into a full-out long, blaring sound, and Charles struggles to pull in enough air even though he can’t feel anything on his face that might be impeding him, it’s like he can’t breathe—can’t breathe—can’t—

“ _Erik_ ,” he chokes out, but then comes a sharp jab of a hypospray in the side of his neck and oh god, no, they can’t put him under, not again, not again, not ag—

Darkness.

X

He floats up into consciousness from an inky ocean of sleep, restful and dreamless.

He’s in a single room in a wide biobed, dressed in clean white clothes. Nothing hurts, which is the most bewildering part, although the contraption stuck at the end of his left arm also gives Erik pause.

It’s hard to tell with the metal cuff locked onto limb, but it looks like they sacrificed another two inches of arm in the surgery. A sturdy plastic-looking cast begins below his elbow and meets the metal cuff, which is secures in place and stabilized by silver bolts. Erik fingers a small little tongue on its underside and finds it’s a small door through which drugs can he administered directly into his veins. In case of maddening pain, he imagines.

His room has a huge plexiglass window to the corridor and once he sits up, he can see the room on the other side of it. Turuk-Altiv is there, with a smaller-looking Gandorian with salt-and-pepper pelt. Erik’s heart slams against his ribs when he sees Charles, lying motionless on a bed surrounded by a shimmering force-field. Even through its distortion, he can see the soft restraints at Charles’ chest and arms, at his waist.

Some kind of combination of fury and horror lances through his chest, and he throws off the covers as he twists to the side, trying to stand. An intermittent, quiet alarm starts ringing in his room. Across the hallway, Turuk-Altiv turns and gestures for him to stay calm. He takes a moment to exchange a few more words with the other Gandorian before crossing to Erik, his stride loping and nimble.

“Francis is restless,” is the first thing he says.

“He’s been _tortured_ ,” Erik growls.

“I am aware.”

“He was probably _tied down_.”

Turuk-Altiv absorbs this “Ah. Nevertheless, I cannot afford him to move. His legs need a great deal of care if he is to walk again.”

Erik feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “Is that...a possibility?”

“That he will not walk? Yes. If he does not remain still. His muscles and tendons are shredded. Very common in cases of Nyrulian torture. He was taken to the arena?”

Erik nods mutely.

“Very distasteful. But he is young and healthy. His chances are good for a full recovery.”

“I would like to see him.”

“He is deeply sedated. I originally decided for light sedation, but he awoke—distressed.” Erik can tell, somehow, that Turuk-Altiv is feeling his way carefully through this, as though attempting to be tactful. “He called out for Erik.”

Erik stiffens, inhaling in a slow, measured way. It’s important now that he gives nothing away.

“You might take care to tell him your name,” the Gandorian continues, delicately lifting Erik’s arm. “Lest he forgets again.”

“We—have reasons,” Erik starts, but Turuk-Altiv makes a low noise in his throat the translator fails to comprehend into words.

“I care little for reasons and less for lies. I do, however, care for your arm. This cuff you see here is a nerve regeneration engine. Although we had to sacrifice another two inches of your forearm due to trauma and infection, the cut we did was clean enough and the nerves have survived. You will carry this cuff for a week; by then, we will be able to assess the damage and consider options for prosthetics.”

Erik breathes out, feeling almost light-headed with relief. “So I have a good chance to have a working prosthetic hand?”

“Good enough to consider the option,” Turuk-Altiv says, very precisely. “Mustn’t build up expectations before recovery, little brother. You also have several hairline fractures in both ulna and radius; they will heal quickly, with the cast. We have also completely fixed the damage to your midsection, though you must take care to move with caution for the next two days.”

Erik closes his eyes and swallows, nodding. He watches Turuk-Altiv turn his arm this way and that, medical holograms offering data around it, mobile and bright.

“I have to admit I don’t know anything about being a refugee,” Erik says eventually, into the silence.

“Few rules,” Turuk-Altiv replies, gently tilting back Erik’s head to shine a bright light in his eyes, then to tap deft fingers all down the back of his neck, spine, and ribs. searching for pain, Erik thinks. “Keep the peace. Obey restrictions and orders. Do what is asked of you, and do not do what is asked of you not to do.”

Turuk-Altiv pats his shoulder companionably once and straightens, head tilting to the side contemplatively.

“It will be tempting to start trouble with Nyrulian refugees. Do not.”

Erik’s head snaps up, shock making him flinch. “ _Nyrulian_ refugees?”

“Yes,” Turuk-Altiv says severely. “Many. The hive-mind is a delicate thing, easily fractured. Those who break loose are not treated with compassion. Those we shelter, like you, are our little brothers.”

Here the Gandorian leans in close, silver-grey eyes narrowed. “You will keep the peace.”

Erik almost feels the reckless urge to ask _what happens if I don’t_ , but one look at Turuk-Altiv’s lithe, long body suggests lack of wisdom in his choice of words would lead to severe consequences. Anyway, he thinks he knows: break the rules, you’re on your own. He’s curious about the logistics of banishment, considering they’re in the middle of deep-black nowhere and with few options. But he’s certain the Gandorians have this whole thing pretty well-planned out. Centuries of humanitarian labor don’t come without the acquisition of some experience.

“I will,” he says instead, nodding.

Turuk-Altiv seems satisfied by this. He straightens again, long-fingered hands settling on Erik’s shoulders. “I will care for you, little brother. You may sit with Francis if you wish. He will sleep yet for hours, but perhaps some comfort is to be found in nearness.”

Erik stands. He knows this is a bad idea as the words come to his mouth, but Turuk-Altiv seems trustworthy and genuinely kind, and Erik doesn’t want him to think they lie because of ill-will or ill-intent.

“About Erik—”

“Curious name,” says the Gandorian. “Have not heard it in a while. Easily forgettable, I suppose.”

Then he makes the oddest gesture—bares his teeth, which are quite impressive, a fine row of white, sharp fangs, and snaps his jaws at Erik. It’s brief and intimidating and—playful, Erik realizes with no little amount of shock.

Good god. A Gandorian just _winked_ at him. This is his life now.

X

Charles sleeps.

Above him the monitors and holoscreens suggest his physical state is sliding slowly out of critical and into the flat lines of stability. From here on out, it’ll all be improvement, but it will take a long time, and a lot of work. Turuk-Altiv only shows Erik Charles’ records due to what can only be a sense of respect for their relationship, and does so with little intention of actually expanding upon Charles’ current condition.

At any hopeful question he continues to answer chances are good for a full recovery. He explains, briefly, that both legs have sustained severe damage and physical rehabilitation will be arduous.

As for wounds incurred in a less physical sense, he says delicately, he will arrange for a specialized Gandorian caretaker to see to it. Psychiatrists, Erik guesses, though the word doesn’t seem to translate to Gandorian well.

While Charles sleeps under heavy sedation, there is little for Erik to do. There is, as Turuk-Altiv had said, a certain comfort to be found in quiet nearness to Charles, with both of them out of danger, safe at long last. On their way to being free of pain.

But Charles’ restful slumber is also vaguely unsettling. He doesn’t move. He’s unnaturally still, his only motions those of his chest, the only evidence that he still lives in the monitors and screen that show the progress of his slow recovery, the rhythm of his heartbeat, the activity in his brain, muted and slowed by drugs.

Eventually, the silence becomes unbearable. Erik leaves his chair and wanders, directionless, through the medical ward. The hallways are wide and the ceilings surprisingly tall, which makes sense considering the average Gandorian appears to be seven feet tall. All the rooms are single rooms, but for the exception here and there where families have been allowed to bundle together in massive halls.

All of these rooms have been designed with a mind for personal space and an accessibility to equipment in case of an emergency. Nothing is cramped. Clean, bright white light floods every crevice. The vast waiting rooms are equipped with comfortable rows of anatomical chairs, virtual libraries with available e-readers, holoscreens, refreshment machines. Worried family members get wristwatches that let them know if there is any development in the condition of their loved ones. Gandorians wander the halls, tall and nimble, offering help and comfort to whomever looks like they need it.

Once, Erik startles almost out of his skin with one of them appears solicitously at his side while he’s fumbling for a refreshment in one of the machines. She scans the band on his wrist before she allows him to eat anything, explaining some care must be given to what humans consume, as they are a delicate organism.

“Am I allowed to leave the ward?” he asks while she thoughtfully opens the packet for him.

“Yes. You must take care not to hurt your arm. Nerve regenerators can cause pain, if they fall out of calibration. There are clothes in the closet in your room.”

The clothes are warm, in his size, and in dark muted greens. Long-sleeved undershirt, shirt, pants and boots, a sweater. All of them have the insignia of the medical ward, which marks him as patient, albeit ambulatory one. Erik understands it’s so no one will put him to work and people will have consideration for his wounds, but it unsettles him, to go everywhere and have people know that he is wounded, weakened.

The first five levels of the massive station are devoted solely to medical care. The next five, to research and development of medical techniques, procedures and prosthetics, investigation of illnesses and diseases.

From deck eleven upwards, it’s living quarters. And it’s nothing like Erik would have expected a refugee station to look like.

Order reigns. Despite the almost unthinkable amount of people taking shelter beneath the wings of the Democratic Republic of Gandor, not a single raised voice can be heard over the others. People are calm, at peace, roaming hallways and corridors with the easy amiability of those who know there can be nothing to gain by hurting their neighbors. Common areas are flooded with laughter and friendship. People offer to hold doors for Erik as he passes, careful not to get too close to his left arm. Children run through grass-covered squares, spraying fountain water at each other.

Refugees here live better than humans in space stations. It’s difficult to accept that Gandorians do this as humanitarian labor, that their medical staff and workers _volunteer_ to be here, and that they ask for nothing in return but for those under their roof to be civilized to one another.

All manner of creatures of all sizes and ages share space like lifelong friends. Gandorians walk the halls, but with the distracted air of a creature lost in their own head, never patrolling of sniffing out trouble.

There is...peace.

Anything anyone might need is in the station. Entire decks are devoted to gardens, waterfalls included, the next one has sand-covered deserts and softly rolling dunes, another one has ice-capped plains and snow. There are decks of libraries with couches and chairs and cushions on the floor. One of the decks is full of saunas and pools, half of which are exclusively for rehabilitation of patients and closed off.

Another deck is comprised of multiple small rooms with no windows and long benches. The walls are lined with holographic screens. Anyone who goes in can use it for an hour at a time.

It has projections of any world in the Universe the Gandorians have ever visited.

Erik stays for an entire hour, sitting, silent, in early-morning First Earth sunlight.

X

Four days into Charles’ induced coma, Turuk-Altiv strides into the room where Erik is sitting next to Charles’ bed and announces, “We will replace his right kneecap. The surgery will be in what humans think of as forty minutes.”

Erik stares at him, aghast. “Wait, you can’t just—don’t I have a say on what procedures you effect on him?”

Turuk-Altiv looks at him quizzically. “No. Why would you think that?”

“I’m his partner,” Erik says through gritted teeth, rising from the chair, straight-backed and belligerent.

“And I am his primary care provider,” Turuk-Altiv replies, like this is overall inconsequential information. “You may decide on his desserts, and I will see to his medical needs.”

Erik swallows back the scorching anger clawing up his throat, takes a deep breath and waits for a moment until he can speak in a civilized manner.

“In human medicine, when someone can’t make decisions for themselves, their next of kin is invited to make them. I’m his next of kin. Indulge me.”

“His kneecap is not healing,” Turuk-Altiv explains, calling down a holoscreen that shows the end of Charles’ femur and the beginning of his tibia. What is supposed to be between them, the healthy and round bone of the patella, is a mess of shards and fractured fragments. “If I delay the surgery any more, this leg might not entirely recover. I have been conservative in my treatments, Max.”

He has. Charles has barely been disturbed but for the necessary physical rehabilitation meant to prevent his muscles from stiffening from inactivity. They have given Charles’ body time and chance to heal on its own and it has—not.

Erik swallows. Replacing a bone seems like a rather big decision for him to make in Charles’ stead, but what is the alternative? And even if he did choose to get difficult about this, would Turuk-Altiv listen? For all of the freedom given to them, very few decisions are actually left in their hands, and none of any importance. The Gandorians might enforce democracy for themselves, but they seem unwilling to waste precious time in extending the courtesy to others.

“Can’t you wake him up, talk him through it before?”

“It’ll take several hours for him to rise from the coma. At least one more before he is lucid enough to understand. You will first have to talk him down from a panic attack. It will set the surgery back at least a day. It is a pointless delay when he will have to be sedated again for it.”

“You won’t need full sedation for a knee replacement, though, will you?” Erik asks, his stomach turning at the idea that something could go wrong—that being kept under for so long could be bad for Charles, could hurt him somehow. Adverse effects.

Turuk-Altiv rests a hand gently on Erik’s shoulder. “I have also been conservative with the sedation. There is no risk involved to his brain functions. It is Gandorian policy to use full sedation on all surgeries performed on foreign species. I would rather he slept on than wake up panicked halfway through. You must trust his care to me, little brother.”

Erik sets his jaw, trying to come up with a way to explain this to Turuk-Altiv in a simple way, without giving too much of Charles’ privacy away—although that, frankly, is a sunken ship. The Gandorian nurses wash Charles once a day. Very little has been kept hidden.

“You said you would speak to—doctors who could look into his mind,” he says carefully, stumbling around the lack of the word ‘psychiatrist’ in Gandorian.

“But he sleeps.”

“Yes,” Erik snaps impatiently. For a very intelligent, bright medic, Turuk-Altiv is pretty obtuse. Maybe delicacy isn’t something Gandorians waste time thinking of. “But he’ll wake up with yet another alien species having done surgery on him while he was unconscious.”

The Gandorian contemplates this, hand heavy and warm on Erik’s shoulder.

“Your concerns are legitimate,” he concedes thoughtfully, eyes sliding to Charles. “But I am in charge of his body, not his mind. We must ready him for surgery; I will inform you of the progress when there is such to inform.”

Erik opens his mouth to argue, but Turuk-Altiv regales him with a sudden, very eloquent baring of teeth, and Erik’s mouth shuts—the unstoppable product of an animalistic sort of fear, prey cowering in front of a predator. In the cold wash of pure instinctive terror that freezes the muscles in Erik’s thorax, he realizes that that they can’t stay here for any longer than it will take for them to heal.

He doesn’t argue or struggle when Turuk-Altiv bodily turns him and leads him gently out the door. He watches the Gandorian nurses come into the room, and stays at the window until the glass goes opaque for privacy.

X

Charles sleeps for another full day after the surgery but Erik doesn’t leave his side once. He stays by the bed, picking slowly at the trays of food Turuk-Altiv has the nurses bring him at regular intervals after Erik made it clear he wasn’t leaving, not even for sustenance.

He refuses to concede on at least this, after he’s already conceded on so much, and allow Charles to wake up alone again. Erik knows he needs to be the first thing Charles sees upon waking, having read between the lines of Turuk-Altiv’s vague description of what happened when Charles woke up before, when Erik was still out cold across the hallway.

Charles is weaned off the sedation a little at a time, though he remains pale and still in the bed where he’s strapped down. Erik had tried arguing again about removing them, as Charles hasn’t moved once throughout the entire duration of his stay in the biobed, but Turuk-Altiv had failed to be moved, baring his teeth again as he explained his decision was final.

And so Erik waits.

He’s dozing, arms folded on the side of the biobed and resting his forehead down on them—careful to keep his weight on his good arm despite the fact his injured arm has remained blissfully numb—when footsteps from behind rouse him, lifting his head and blinking blearily. It’s only Turuk-Altiv, walking around the other side of the biobed and checking the screens that portray Charles’ vitals, making a small rasping sound that Erik has taken to be the equivalent of a human clucking their tongue.

“He will wake soon,” the Gandorian says, and even as he speaks Charles’ heart rate picks up minutely, “very soon.”

Erik swallows, sitting up and ignoring the twinge his back gives. “Please,” he says, voice coming out as a croak until he clears his throat, “can we be alone.”

He fully expects to be denied this too, but Turuk-Altiv only surveys him for a few long moments, his expression as unreadable and alien as the rest of him. “Yes,” he says, bobbing his head once, “but if you cannot keep him calm, we must intervene.”

Erik’s nodding even before Turuk-Altiv is finished speaking. “Yes. I—yes.”

He keeps his gaze on Charles’ face while Turuk-Altiv checks on a few more of the hovering screens, moving around the room with easy grace. He doesn’t even look up when the Gandorian exits, switching the window back to opaque and closing the door behind him.

Erik breathes out once unsteadily, pulling his chair up as close as possible to the biobed, and waits.

It takes Charles another half hour or so to wake, all the signs of his vitals steadily increasing to normal, waking levels slowly but surely. Erik watches him intently, not wanting to crowd him but ready to lean in, lean closer at the slightest sign of invitation or necessity. Charles’ face shifts, jaw working and eyes tracking beneath his lids, arms twitching once, and then there’s a sudden spike in his heart rate as his eyes slide open with a sharp intake of breath.

“Charles,” Erik says at once, rising up out of his chair so that the sudden motion draws Charles’ clouded, disorientated gaze, “you’re safe. It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m here. I’m here.”

Charles makes an aborted movement, possibly to try and reach for him, but his wrists are still tethered down to the bed with soft cuffs. Panic flares up again, eyes going wide and the heart rate monitor spiking up again but Erik moves in, fumbling at the straps of the cuffs awkwardly with one hand.

“It’s alright,” he says quickly, as soothingly as he can while he works Charles’ bony wrist free, “they didn’t want you to shift in your sleep and disrupt your healing. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

As soon as Charles’ hand is free he turns it around, gripping Erik’s hand tightly. He’s still breathing too fast, heart rate elevated from where it probably should be, but the fog in his eyes is starting to clear as he gazes up at Erik, no longer struggling against his restraints even though Erik can tell that he wants to.

“Easy, easy,” Erik whispers, not even bothering to try and conceal how wetness is blurring his vision as he lifts Charles’ hand to press a kiss against his fingers, “I’ve got you. We’re okay.”

Charles nods, his breathing slowly evening out and Erik is relieved, so _relieved_ , to see him awake again, alive in a more tangible way than impersonable vital screens displaying nothing more than blips and lines. The stillness of Charles’ sedated sleep had unnerved him, too close to death instead of rest. Erik wants to reach down and untie Charles’ other arm, touch Charles’ face, smooth back Charles’ hair, but he only has one hand and he doesn’t want to let go of Charles’, even for a second, not yet.

“We’re in a Gandorian refugee camp,” Erik says quietly, just to keep talking and to allow Charles to listen and ground himself, “and they’ve taken good care of us. See, my arm.” He holds up his other arm, showing Charles the metal cuff that his wrist ends in. “They say I have a good chance to heal enough to be compatible with a prosthetic.”

Charles studies his arm for a moment, taking it in, but his eyes don’t stray far from Erik’s face for long, the blue washed out and exhausted even though he’s spent the past few days deeply asleep.

Erik takes a breath. “They had to keep you sedated to keep you calm, to let you heal. Your body needed the rest. Your legs are badly injured but they say you can make a full recovery in time.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, absorbing that, closing his eyes for a brief moment and taking an unsteady breath. Erik squeezes his hand. Charles isn’t the only one who needs grounding.

“They had to perform surgery on your knee,” Erik says, and when Charles takes another nervous breath he continues quickly, stumbling over the words, “ _just_ your knee, nothing else. I tried to argue with them to wake you up first, so we could talk about it, but they do things differently here. I’m sorry, Charles.” He leans down over him, their hands caught between them, and presses their foreheads together. “I just want you to be alright,” he breathes, a soft confession in the scant space between them, secret from the rest of the world, “I just want you with me.”

Charles wiggles his hand out of Erik’s grip, sliding it over to loosen the cuff on his other wrist, pulling his other arm free so he can reach up and wrap them both around Erik’s back, cradling him close. “I’m with you,” he says, his voice a faint whisper and rough with disuse, “we’re okay.”

Selfish, Erik thinks to himself wearily as they stay like that, pressed together despite their odd positioning. Charles is the one still half-strapped down to a biobed with close to ruined legs, and here Erik is taking comfort from him instead.

That can be fixed. He pulls back gently from Charles’ grip, shaking his head at Charles’ confused look. “Don’t move. Keep your legs still.”

Erik climbs up onto the biobed carefully, avoiding jostling Charles or kneeing him accidentally. There’s just enough room for both of them if he curls up next to Charles on his side, scooting in as close as possible without ending up on top of him, and gently tucking his injured arm up underneath Charles’ head. Charles doesn’t move the lower half of his body as ordered but he does shift his torso over, snuggling up against Erik as well as he can while lying on his back. Erik grasps one of Charles’ hands with his own, linking their fingers together on Charles’ belly, unable to help pressing his nose against the curl of Charles’ hair.

“They know you as Francis here,” Erik says after a while, when they’ve laid still for an indeterminate amount of time, breathing together. “I gave my usual name Max.” To have code names is standard for Starfleet officers; in the event of capture or interrogation, they’re supposed to be able to readily give false names, false data, false codes, all while sounding convincing even if under duress—so the names hold a small ounce of truth. Eisenhardt is a family name on Erik’s father’s side, Max just a generic first name, while Charles’ own Francis Haller is his true middle name combined with a generic surname.

In hindsight, nothing had ever prepared them for a case like Charles’ where his captors were his own _family_ and therefore already knew everything about him. Erik has to physically stop his fist from clenching, willing his fingers to stay loose and relaxed around Charles’.

Fortunately unaware of Erik’s thoughts, Charles nods his head once, hair tickling Erik’s nose. His vitals have stabilized completely, and Erik can feel that Charles’ body is lax against his own, calmed by Erik’s presence. Erik feels steadier too, feeling less like he’s been cast adrift now that he can moor himself to Charles again, both of them safe and on the road to recovery. It’s surreal, in a way, to not have to fight anymore. He’s got Charles back. They’re both alive.

“I love you,” Erik says quietly, the emotion hot and dense as the iron core of a star, all the rest of him held in tightly around it—or would be, if not for the way Charles leaves him feeling cracked open, raw and exposed.

Charles is already halfway back to dozing, the sedation chemicals lingering in his bloodstream, but he shifts, turning his head sideways and pressing a soft, featherlight kiss to Erik’s throat. Erik breathes out shakily and curls closer, reminding himself to get a grip. He has to be steady for both of them.

The door opens and Erik feels Charles jump, more of a reflexive reaction than actual fear as Turuk-Altiv glides in. He squeezes Charles’ fingers gently as the tall Gandorian approaches the bed, all of the floating screens swiveling to face him as he comes to a stop.

“Greetings, little brother,” Turuk-Altiv says, glancing briefly at Erik. Erik stares back, silently daring the Gandorian to ask him to move. “I am Turuk-Altiv, your primary care provider. If you would please tell me your name and the last stardate you can recall.”

“Francis Eisenhardt,” Charles answers, his voice weak and raspy, “stardate 2259.55.”

Erik could kiss him for that alone, hot molten core trembling with the threat of bursting, but he’s pushing things with Turuk-Altiv enough by remaining on the biobed while the Gandorian asks Charles a few more simple questions and runs a few perfunctory diagnostics in the background. It’s just a codename, but something about sharing a last name with Charles fills Erik with warm delight, part of him humming with pleasure at such an unmistakable claim. He tamps down on the feeling, however, as this is neither the time nor place to be indulging in silly fantasies. Charles’ injuries and recovery should be first and foremost on Erik’s mind, not his fake last name.

“—early yet to tell if the operation was a complete success,” Turuk-Altiv is explaining when Erik snaps back to the present, “but all signs so far are optimistic. I will send the order for one of our physical specialists to come and assess you for a personalized training program.”

“Thank you,” Charles says faintly, and Erik can tell that he’s only absorbing about half of what’s being said, still out-of-it and exhausted even while he visibly struggles to stay alert, just like before when they were on Wade’s ship.

“Sleep, little brother,” Turuk-Altiv tells him gently, “your Max will stand guard. You are safe here.”

“I’m right here,” Erik whispers, and Charles only manages a faint hum before dropping off again, wiped out even by only a few minutes’ worth of consciousness.

“He will improve as the drugs continue to wear off,” Turuk-Altiv assures Erik, tapping out a few notes on another holoscreen. “His vitals are holding steady and strong. It will not be long before we can move him out of intensive care and into the recovery wing. We will keep him here for now, and continue to monitor him for a few more days.”

“Thank you,” Erik says quietly, still grappling with the idea of being in someone’s debt, even if the Gandorians will never hold them to it. Erik might disagree with some of his methods, but it’s undeniable Turuk-Altiv is doing them a great service.

“Your treatment is not complete either,” Turuk-Altiv answers smoothly, rounding the other side of the biobed where Erik’s injured arm is splayed out helpfully, upper arm still pillowing Charles’ head. He examines the cuff with deft fingers, pulling one of the screens down and switching it to lock onto Erik instead, scanning his arm. “The hairline fractures are almost fully healed. I will make you an appointment with prosthetics. For tomorrow, I think,” he adds, sounding amused as he glances up at Erik, pointedly taking him in curled around Charles.

“Tomorrow.” Erik repeats, half in agreement and half in trepidation, though he isn’t sure why. “What kind of prosthetics do you offer here?”

“It is not my specialty,” Turuk-Altiv answers as he straightens, sending the screen back to its original job of monitoring Charles with a flick of his fingers. “I assure you, however, that our prosthetics division is unmatched. We take in a vast amount of little brothers and sisters to care for here. You will have many designs and other options to choose from, and everything will be calibrated to match you flawlessly.”

“That’s…” Erik trails off with a wide yawn. Charles is warm and limp, breathing soft and slow, and Erik has finally spoken to him, gotten visceral proof that he’s going to be okay, and Erik can feel tension draining from his own body in relief, leaving him drowsy. “Good. That’s good.”

“Indeed,” Turuk-Altiv responds, sounding wry. “You may sleep here for the next cycle. It is not normally permitted, but I will see about arranging for a larger biobed when Francis is moved to the recovery deck.”

Erik might have responded, he isn’t really sure. Either way he gives into the downward pull of sleep, drifting off, Charles’ hand still securely in his own.

 


	3. Trauma is a lonely thing

 

The Gandorian who receives him at the doors of the prosthetics wing of the hospital is grey-pelted with startling green eyes, short for a Gandorian, and with inordinately long arms. Her right leg is a sleek prosthetic, chrome and glossy blue, with an elaborate lobstered-like exterior that mimics the muscles of her left leg. Erik makes an effort to avoid his eyes lingering on it, but the Gandorian must be used to it, because she gets right down to business.

“Machinery accident in the Engineering decks three years back,” she says. “Many dead. I was relatively lucky. My name is Hajeena-Maral. Shall I call you Max?”

“Please,” says Erik, falling in step with her when she gestures. She leads him to one of the private exam rooms, the wall opposite the door an entire window to the outside black of space. Through it the planet in the process of being terraformed is being devastated by violent sandstorms. Awed, having never seen the process directly before, Erik wanders close to the window.

“How long before it’s habitable?”

“Five months,” says Hajeena-Maral. “Please have a seat. Your PCP is Turuk-Altiv?”

“Yes,” Erik answers, puzzled.

“He is very conservative, very non-invasive,” comments Hajeena-Maral, with a distinct note of disapproval in the tones modulated by the universal translator. Erik thinks of Turuk-Altiv’s refusal to consider waking Charles to inform him of surgery being performed on his own body and wonders what precisely counts as ‘invasive’ for the Gandorians.

Hajeena-Maral gestures for him to sit on the soft biobed, and a flurry of holoscreens cascades around him and his arm. Most of the readings are impossible to decipher, in a language Erik’s never even seen before.

The Gandorian makes a thoughtful noise, tapping her fingertips along the hard, opaque cover of the cast on Erik’s arm. Then those fingers travel up, smooth and warm, pressing tightly into the muscles on his upper arm and shoulder, sinking into his armpit, prodding up over the shoulder and chest muscles.

“A prosthetic of this scope should present no problems for the muscles above the elbow,” Hajeena-Maral explains. “However, your medical records upon admittance suggest your body had little to spare, and I will have to give you immunosuppressors in order for the prosthetic to attach correctly. Human systems are such delicate and whimsical things. I can limit the treatment to your arm, to about here,” she presses her palm to the outer edge of Erik’s clavicle, “but it will not be pleasant for you.”

“What about my wrist?”

“Comes with the hand, naturally.”

Erik swallows. “But the chances are good for it to attach?”

“I do not deal in chances, I deal in facts. Turuk-Altiv is an optimist, the pup, and you must not always trust his words blindly.”

“An optimist,” Erik echoes, stomach turning. He tries not to think about Charles and his leg. “So—the nerves?”

“They are healing well. The hairline fractures have gone, so I will remove this cast. Then I will remove the cuff and we will run tests on the stump. If all is well, I will run yet more tests. A lot of them. This is the tedious part of the process, I’m sorry to say, so I do hope you did not come here today expecting to come out with four fingers and a thumb.”

Erik inhales sharply. “ _Thank you_ for the condescension,” he growls, patience finally worn thin concerning Gandorians. “I always do love to come see medics and get treated like a stupid child.”

“Does it not seem stupid to you, to have your hand ripped off of your arm?” Hajeena-Maral retorts, green eyes narrowing. “Would this have happened to you, do you suppose, if you had not engaged in a pointless scuffle with Nyrulians? I know their handiwork when I see it. It’s never a clean amputation with them.”

“You think you can lecture me about—”

“I am three hundred and twenty years old, by your counting of time,” the Gandorian replies. “Do you humans not praise the wisdom of age?”

“Stop asking me questions!” snarls Erik, panting. “I don’t know who you think you _are_. This—what happened to me—I had to do it for Francis! I had to get him out of there. No matter the cost.”

“Mutilation.”

“What?” snaps Erik.

“Mutilation. That is what happened to you. You were mutilated. Say it.”

Something hot like horror fills Erik’s chest. His breath catches, pained, in his throat.

Hajeena-Maral’s jade eyes narrow, lips rising off her impressive teeth. “Say it. You’re not a coward. I don’t give new limbs to cowards.”

Erik inhales, a shaky breath that hurts. “I was mutilated,” he whispers.

“Yes,” agrees Hajeena-Maral. “Lucky I can fix that for you, aren’t you?”

Erik stares at her, disbelieving, shaking. He’s wracked alternatively by sweeps of heat and cold that wash through him. Shock? But no, not as bad as that. Something milder. Acceptance.

“Did you insult me to get me to say that?”

“I would have insulted you anyway,” shrugs the Gandorian. “You are an angry little boy. I like my little brothers angry. That puppy knows me well.”

“Puppy,” echoes Erik. “Turuk-Altiv, puppy. How old is he?”

“Old enough to have lived your life several times over,” drawls Hajeena-Maral. “Now stretch your arm out in front of you.”

Erik does, and a part of the biobed he’s sitting on detaches to form a rest for it. Erik lets his arm sit on it, tense, and watches as a mechanical arm unfolds from the wall, a small metal rod resting gently on the surface of the cast. Erik inhales when the vibration starts—it’s not unpleasant or painful, but it certainly feels odd, he can feel it all the way up to his shoulder. Then, under his surprised gaze, the cast literally disintegrates into pale, rough grit. The mechanical arm retracts the rod and deploys a little vacuuming device, sucks up all the grit, and silently disappears. Erik has never, never seen medical equipment this advanced.

“Why not share this sort of knowledge with other species?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Such things can easily be weapons in the wrong hands,” replies Hajeena-Maral. “We trust no one to use them responsibly. You younger species, you are like children. You squabble and rage and fight each other. We help only those who give up violence.”

Erik nods, studying the skin of his newly healed forearm. The muscle tone appears to have suffered no ill consequences of the cast, though he’s somewhat bewildered to find his arm is now hairless.

Then Hajeena-Maral pushes the armrest slightly back, to clear the metal cuff, and starts efficiently sliding out the securing bolts. “Tell me if there is pain.”

But it doesn’t hurt. Slowly, as sensation returns to him, Erik realizes it was the cast that numbed his arm. It’s like something crawling beneath his skin, at first, uncomfortable but hard to describe. It’s only when Hajeena-Maral twists the cap off the metal cuff that sensation returns in full, breathtaking and making him squirm.

“Pain?” asks Hajeena-Maral at once, slapping her hand down on his arm to keep it still.

“No,” gasps Erik, clenching the fingers of his other hand on the edge of the biobed. “I don’t know, it hurts but—”

“It’s pleasurable too,” says the Gandorian, perfectly level and without judgement. “Understandable. You have been numbed for a week. The return of feeling is a heady sensation. Don’t be ashamed if you’re aroused. I’ve seen more erections than you have, I assure you.”

Well, even if he had, that would have killed it for sure.

The Gandorian makes a quick gesture with her overlong fingers, and the holoscreen hovering above Erik’s—stump, it’s a stump, and he’s going to call it what it is, goddamn it, a _stump_ —changes its image of bone and muscle structure to a detailed mapping of the nerves on Erik’s arm.

“Has the tingling passed?” Hajeena-Maral asks. When Erik nods, she says, “Move your index finger.”

Erik swallows and tries, trying not to think of how there’s nothing below about halfway down his forearm. In the holoscreen, one of the nerves flares up. Exhilaration burns Erik’s chest, breath leaving him in a gasp. Hajeena-Maral makes a noncommittal sound and orders him to do the same for all of his fingers, then attempt to move his wrist in a rotating motion.

At last she makes a satisfied noise. “This is why I sacrificed part of the forearm. I wanted to make sure the nerves were cut to a clean line. Your nerves have survived undamaged; with an appropriate prosthetic, you will regain full use of this hand.”

Erik exhales shakily, flooded by warm gratitude.

“Now you must decide if you want a removable one, or a fixed one.”

Erik looks at her inquisitively. She makes a sound of impatience, snatches a tablet from her desk, and taps something. “Here, have a brochure.”

Fumbling in surprise, he manages nevertheless to catch the tablet against his stomach, blinking at her. She taps her long fingers gently along the metal rim of the cuff, and then dismisses the armrest.

“Have a look. It’s a very clean scar, I must say.”

Reluctantly, Erik does have a look. About an inch below the metal rim, his arm ends in a well-healed, smooth point. The scar is to the side, small and unobtrusive, where the skin’s been delicately stretched over sliced flesh. It’s disconcerting, to see it. Erik isn’t quite sure how he feels about it. His stump.

“Well, you make friends with it,” Hajeena-Maral says, dismissing him with a gesture. “And take your time with that brochure, won’t you. Rather a big decision, you understand.”

Erik slides to the floor, swallowing. “You—you won’t cover it again?”

“It’s fully healed. There’s no reason to cover it. The clean air will help with sensation. It will be quite sensitive for a time. I have no more need of you today, little brother. Come back again tomorrow at this same time.”

Nodding somewhat dizzily, cradling the tablet against his stomach, Erik leaves.

 

X

 

Charles is awake when Erik returns to the room, the top half of the biobed titled up to allow him to sit up without disturbing his legs. Foggy blue eyes, clouded with exhaustion and wariness for surroundings he probably hasn’t yet adjusted to, clear with relief when he sees Erik again, a little of the tension in his shoulders visibly draining away.

Erik crosses over to the bedside in three easy strides, still cradling the tablet with his hand while his other arm—his stump, he reminds himself again—hangs awkwardly at his side, held a little ways out instinctively even though it won’t hurt if he does accidentally brush it against his clothes. He’d hated the vulnerability of his trip back from the prosthetics wing, his one hand full while his other is…

Mutilated. Gone.

“Hi,” Charles says after a moment, studying his face.

“Hi,” Erik answers, breathing out and forcing himself to relax. He’s safe here in Charles’ room. There’s no danger of anyone sneaking up from behind to take advantage of his weakness. There’s no danger of that anywhere on this massive station, but it’s easier to believe that here, in their much smaller and more contained oasis. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Charles says, too promptly for it to be the whole truth, “how did it go?”

Wordlessly Erik holds out his stump, nodding once when Charles glances up at him questioningly and allowing Charles to reach forward and take his arm, tracing deft, gentle fingers across smooth skin. Erik feels more at ease with letting Charles touch it than he did with Hajeena-Maral, whose lingering effect of her personality is still making Erik’s head reel.

“Does it hurt?” Charles asks when he reaches Erik’s scar, drawing a circle with one finger pad around its edges, ready to pull away in a heartbeat.

“No,” Erik answers honestly. The touch sends a wave of goosebumps rippling up his arm, making him shiver despite himself.

Belatedly he remembers Hajeena-Maral’s warning about how it wouldn’t be unnatural for him to pop an erection, except right now is possibly the least appropriate time in the universe, with Charles looking up at him from his hospital bed with one raised eyebrow as Erik hastily pulls his arm away.

“It’s, ah, been numb for a week,” he explains, fumbling a little, “so feeling sensation now isn’t painful, just...odd.”

The old Charles would’ve teased him a little, maybe, or said something extremely polite and understanding all while his eyes sparked with amusement, but this Charles merely looks at him, careful and assessing, before nodding once.

But no, Erik berates himself silently as he sets the tablet down and kicks off his shoes before climbing up onto the biobed, don’t start comparing. It isn’t fair to Charles at all. There’s no comparison to be made: this _is_ Charles. His Charles.

They get themselves comfortable, or at least Erik does, as he’s free to maneuver a little more than Charles is, his legs still strapped down to the bed. Erik slides into place beside Charles, tucking Charles up against his side and getting his arm around his shoulders so they can shift closer, leaning into each other.

“What’s that?” Charles asks when Erik reaches over to grab the tablet again, propping it up in his lap in front of them so they can both see it.

“Brochure,” Erik says, a little wryly. “Help me pick out a new hand. I’ll even let you bedazzle it if you want.”

Charles huffs out a soft breath that could possibly count as the shadow of a laugh, so Erik counts it as a victory. Charles grasps the other side of the tablet, opposite of Erik’s hand to help him hold it up, and together they settle into place, scrolling slowly through the long lists of specs for each offered prosthetic.

They stay like that until Charles falls asleep, leaving Erik staring blankly at the tablet screen until it goes dark.

 

X

 

The Gandorian that follows Turuk-Altiv into Charles’ room the next morning looks older. Streaks of silver-grey hair adorn his chin, chest and shoulders, mingled unobtrusively on an otherwise dark brown pelt. He is also, surprisingly, wearing a silver bracelet on his left wrist—the first jewelry Erik has seen on any Gandorian.

“This is Saran-Mel,” introduces Turuk-Altiv, gently taking the tablet from Erik’s hand and putting it aside. “Saran-Mel specializes in psychological wounds. He will be your specialist in those injuries I can not tend to.”

“He’ll be treating both of us?” Charles asks, blinking.

The Gandorians stare at him.

Charles shifts. “In human medicine, psychologists don’t treat partners. It can affect objectivity.”

“We are not humans,” points out Turuk-Altiv.

Saran-Mel holds up a hand, pale blue eyes pensive.

“Perhaps it would be wise to assign someone else to Max,” he says slowly. “I will recommend another. Whoever that is and I will share notes, you must understand, but you need not...know, of each other.”

Erik sits up, frowning slightly. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“No,” says Saran-Mel kindly. “ _You_ would not.”

Erik looks at Charles, shocked. Charles is looking down, at his hands on his lap, pale and tense as a bowstring.

“You have gone through different experiences.” Saran-Mel rounds the bed and lays a hand on Erik’s shoulder, gently but firmly drawing him away from Charles. Erik’s mind is too blank with white noise to put up resistance, and he nearly stumbles into Turuk-Altiv when he finally leaves the bed. The Gandorian steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, grounding. “It throws no judgment on you that he should need to revisit this alone.”

“Come, little brother,” Turuk-Altiv murmurs, leading Erik out of the room. He closes the door behind them, and the glass turns opaque. Erik stares at it, sightless, unsure of what he’s feeling.

Turuk-Altiv hums, an odd back-of-the-throat sound, rolling and rich. He cants his head to the side, studying Erik with thoughtful eyes that see too much.

“ _Do_ you want a psychologist?”

Erik snorts before he can help himself.

“Nobody can force you to do anything,” says Turuk-Altiv decisively.

“How would I stop them?” asks Erik, jaded, without any real bite, raising his stump so Turuk-Altiv can see it.

The Gandorian leans in close, bending so his jaws are even with Erik’s eyes. His black lips raise off his teeth, and Erik can see all the way from his front teeth to his last molar, all of them scalpel-sharp and brutal. Instinct makes Erik take a step back; Turuk-Altiv’s hand darts out, long fingers wrapping around the metal cuff, and Erik sees the second his claws shoot out of the nailbeds, glossy and hard, about half a foot long.

“You would not have to,” Turuk-Altiv says, jaws opening to reveal a long, poisonous-looking yellow tongue.

Then, all at once, Turuk-Altiv retreats, claws sliding back into his fingers, lips pressing closed. He lays that dangerous hand on Erik’s shoulder, idle and comforting.

Erik swallows, staring at that hand, impressively long fingers and short nails, pointy but seemingly well-manicured, pale red like Turuk-Altiv’s russet pelt. Not black, not deadly. He looks up, open-mouthed.

“Trauma is a lonely thing,” Turuk-Altiv muses. “And some creatures, gentler creatures, cannot shrug it off. “

He taps at the glass of Charles’ room pointedly, and Erik breathes in, nodding, throat strangled. “He’s not weak.”

“No, he is not. But he is not like you,” Turuk-Altiv continues, against lifting Erik’s stump to eye level. “You need not be coddled. It is not peace you seek within yourself, after all, is it, little brother?”

Erik raises his eyes slowly, understanding at once what Turuk-Altiv is suggesting.

“We choose to be peaceful,” Turuk-Altiv murmurs, removing his hands and standing straight. “That does not mean we fail to have violent urges, or fail to understand them. Do not waste time in the search of things you do not care for. Nevertheless, understand this: what you turn your back on now must necessarily come upon you, at length. It is your choice.”

Erik inhales deeply. He looks at his stump, and thinks back over the brochure.

“I think I know which hand I want.”

 

X

 

“I am, somehow, not surprised,” says Hajeena-Maral, putting down the tablet with the brochure open on the prosthetic Erik settled on.

“Is that one an option?”

Hajeena-Maral studies him for a long moment. “Yes. But if you read this carefully, and forgive my skepticism—though I doubt you will—you’ll have noticed this one has a very harsh coordination period.”

“One to five months of recovery,” Erik nods. “I did read it. I can read. I don’t know if you know that.”

“No, what a surprise,” the Gandorian says, completely unruffled by Erik’s testy tone. There’s a long moment of silence as Hajeena-Maral dips her eyes back to the brochure, blinking slowly, deep in thought. She rises, suddenly, from her desk chair, and crosses the room to where Erik is leaning against the biobed. With an impatient gesture, she grips Erik’s stump and puts it up for the computer to start running diagnostics.

“This will require more than simple fittings, you understand,” she says, tapping things into the holoscreen. “This will require surgery, lengthy and complex. I will have to open up the stump and attach the nerves to the prosthetic. No one has been able to appropriately describe the pain level, but ‘maddening’ has been going around.”

“But it’s been done before—on humans?”

Hajeena Maral nods, twisting the metal cuff to the side and ignoring Erik’s hiss of startled pain as she removes it. The ring of irritated skin and scar tissue where the cuff was attached tingles.

“Don’t I need that?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Not for an attached prosthetic,” she dismisses, throwing the cuff into a compartment behind a sliding door in the wall. “And yes. It has been done before, on humans. I have performed the procedure myself. Would you like my records? Perhaps my resume?”

Erik ignores that and pushes through with nothing but a glare fit to peel paint. “And was it successful?”

“He did not complain. The arm was in perfect working order last I saw him. That surgery was much more complicated than this little thing,” she drums her fingertips on his stump and strides away to the wallscreen, where she calls up the specification for Erik’s prosthetic and starts running diagnostics of it and his arm to see if it could be a match. “I had to replace clavicle and spatula; the whole shoulder joint was gone.”

Erik swallows, stomach turning. He stares at his arm, held out in front of him. It’s just a quarter of his forearm and hand gone. His whole arm, up to the shoulder joint? He can’t even begin to process the sort of damage that would mean.

“He was only a pup, too,” Hajeena-Maral is saying absently. “Didn’t know his name either. Very odd.”

The holoscreen beeps.

“Well,” Hajeena-Maral turns back to him, strangely long arms crossing. “It looks like it will work. I did mention the pain, did I not?”

“Maddening,” says Erik grimly.

Hajeena-Maral shakes her head slowly. “It’s not the metal that’s the issue, of course. But in order for it to work properly the nerves must be attached _precisely_. It will have to be made specifically for you. That will take a few days.”

“But you have it available?”

“The metal? Yes. Adamantium is plentiful in Gandor.”

Erik startles. “Gandor is still there?”

Hajeena-Maral blinks at him. “Last I heard, planets do not migrate.”

Erik makes a sound of annoyance. “I thought the planet was gone, that’s why you’d moved onto space stations and terraformed planets.”

“No. Gandor is the fifth orbital planet in a red dwarf. We have yet a million years before the star collapses and takes Gandor with it. Our migration to space stations and other planets was a natural process in the evolution of our society. There were too many of us to remain in one location. It is, to be perfectly frank, a tourist attraction these days. Haven’t visited in years, myself. It is very hot.”

“Hot,” says Erik, bewildered.

“Desertic,” she continues distractedly. “Something not unlike the deserts of your First Earth. Which we visited, although that—went poorly.”

“Poorly?” Erik arches a brow.

“We were not well received, and we do not respond well to being attacked—a very miserable affair, all in all. Many dead, on your side. We never went to that quadrant again, although we did apologize and leave them knowledge to help along the wounded.”

Erik squints at her, trying to figure out which one of the many First Earth civilizations had the sorry luck of running into Gandorians. He really needs to brush up on his Earth Empire history. Charles will know.

“So,” he says, bracing himself. “How long until we’re ready for surgery?”

“A week,” Hajeena-Maral says thoughtfully. “I will need to take measurements of your remaining hand, unless you wanted me to model it after mine.”

She holds up her hand helpfully, small square palm and fingers with several joints in them. It looks more like a Trican spider than a hand, although it does at least have the correct amount of fingers.

“I’d be flattered by the honor,” he says monotonously. “I think I better stick to my own.”

Hajeena-Maral hums and gestures for him to leave, attention already turned entirely to her wallscreen.

“Hajeena, how do I get access to training facilities?”

“By being fit to train,” drawls the Gandorian, looking at him as though she pities his poor brain capacity.

“I _am_ fit to train.”

“Turik-Altiv will be the judge of that.”

“You said yourself that he’s conservative.”

Hajeena-Maral shrugs. “Take your ceaseless whining to him. Him and his bleeding heart.”

Erik stares at her, open mouthed. Turuk-Altiv, bleeding heart? “Are we talking about the _same_ Gandorian?”

Hajeena-Maral turns to face him with an expression that suggest further words will lead to a considerable amount of pain. Erik throws up his hand and backs away, though he can’t help the smile that tugs, insistent, at the corner of his mouth.

 

X

 

The window to Charles’ room is still opaque when Erik returns, so rather than disturb Charles and Saran-Mel or stand lurking outside, he heads a few halls over to one of the first common areas he’d discovered during his initial wanderings of the base. He borrows one of the tablets available to lend and sits down in one of the oddly-shaped but also extremely comfortable chairs in one of the corners and accesses the network.

He wonders, for a moment, the merits of accessing Earth Empire channels from what will ping as a decidedly strange IP, but then shakes his head at himself. If anyone is actively tracking that sort of thing at all, they have far more important things to worry about right now with the Nyrulians starting to get aggressive again.

Besides, he and Charles may be refugees but it’s not as if they’re hiding. No one is looking for them. Everyone believes they’re both dead.

Erik pulls up a news stream for Third Earth, scanning down the headlines. It’s not the level of news he’d be able to access using Starfleet routes, but he has the feeling punching in his code to access those channels _will_ throw up more red flags than the anonymous browsing he’s doing now.

But there— _that’s_ interesting. Erik pulls up the full story, reading quickly. Starfleet officials in talks with Gandorians, of all beings, after Oh-Bee and Es-Bee signals were scrambled and switched with those of Gandorian Destroyers during the Nyrulian attacks last week.

Nyrulian attacks, aimed for Starfleet bases. Erik is suddenly flooded with overwhelming relief Stark and Rogers hacked their way into sending him that transmission and he’d been able to warn Rogers about the Nyrulian ships they’d seen, flying in battle formation. Scrambling the signals and applying them to Gandorians, of all people, has Rogers’ reckless brilliance all over it. Better to have annoyed Gandorians than destroyed Starfleet bases courtesy of the Nyrulians.

There are a couple more paragraphs in the article of vague information that’s more speculation than fact, but Erik’s stopped reading, head suddenly spinning with what feels like a thousand what-ifs. What if Stark and Rogers hadn’t gotten through to the Heartsteel? What if the Heartsteel hadn’t even come across the Nyrulian ships at all? What if they’d been too late in reaching Geonosis, in reaching Charles?

Devastating to think about, even though none of those possibilities had come to pass. Erik takes a couple deep breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart, left anxious and dry-mouthed by the mere thought alone.

An hour passes in what seems more like merely minutes before Erik feels steady enough to collect himself and return to Charles’ room, giving his borrowed tablet back before setting off. He’s not sure how long Charles’—session, appointment?—with Saran-Mel is supposed to last, but he doesn’t want Charles to have to wait alone for too long for him to return.

His timing works out well, because he sees Saran-Mel in the corridor down the hall from Charles’ room. “How did it—go?” Is he allowed to ask?

Saran-Mel comes to a stop and regards him unblinkingly for a few long moments, and Erik starts to feel psychoanalyzed himself. “It is difficult to say, as we have only met once.”

“Please,” Erik says, hand moving to grip his other forearm that belongs to his stump, “I’d like to know. Whatever you can tell me.” He’s not sure how Gandorian ethics work, only that they obviously vary vastly from human ones.

“Today we did not talk about the trials Francis has been through at all,” Saran-Mel replies, still watching Erik with that calm, unreadable gaze, “but instead, he spoke only about you.”

Erik’s heart twists. “He’s...he’ll talk himself in circles about a random topic to avoid talking about what’s really bothering him.”

“Noted,” Saran-Mel says, with the air of someone who has already realized this and is only humoring Erik, “but it was not random, Max. He worries deeply about you. He suspects you will opt out of speaking to a mind healer. Is he not wrong?”

“No,” Erik answers, voice barely audible, “he’s right.” He clears his throat. “I don’t—I can handle myself.” He knows how to cope. He knows how to take all those ugly emotions and feelings and put them in a box and bury that box deeply inside himself where he can’t touch it and it can’t touch him back, at least until he needs them for fuel. He’d taught himself this much after the destruction of First Earth when he’d been a child.

“As he said,” Saran-Mel says, sounding amused, “but still he worries. He very much wants your prosthetic surgeries to go well, because he sees how much it affects you, to be wounded. He knows you do not like to have your weaknesses on display.”

His weaknesses are always on display when it comes to Charles, who has always known Erik better than Erik suspects he knows himself. It makes his heart hurt, because it brings him back face-to-face with the fact that he took Charles for granted for so long, a truth that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to make up for.

“You are an interesting mate pair,” Saran-Mel observes, and Erik has to fight not to sputter, “very attuned to one another, for humans. I can see that your pain causes him pain, and vice-versa.”

“I spent a long time without realizing what was right in front of me,” Erik says when he’s recovered, squeezing the forearm of his stump tightly, “and I’m trying to make up for that.”

“I believe if you were to ask Francis, he would not agree.”

“No,” Erik says with a nod, “he wouldn’t. But that’s why I have to try.”

“I am glad you say this,” Saran-Mel answers, reaching forward to deftly separate Erik’s good hand from his stump arm with gentle fingers, “because your presence will be key to his mental recovery. He will need you to be constant and steady. It is imperative that you do not drift away.”

Erik opens his mouth to respond, but then stops. Promises are easy to make. They’re even easier to break, whether by choice or by circumstances beyond human control. Theme of the year, he thinks tiredly.

“What happened to him,” he says instead quietly, letting both his arms fall limply to his sides and looking up at the tall Gandorian. “What do Nyrulians do to those they torture?”

“Their physical methods are not uncommon,” Saran-Mel says, medically detached, “many other species of the galaxy employ the same when partaking in such distasteful habits. What is unique about Nyrulian torture is their ability not only to affect the physical, but the neurological as well.”

“Neurological,” Erik repeats, ice cold dread spreading down his spine, “not psychological.”

“All forms of torture are psychological,” Saran-Mel corrects, calm and precise. “The Nyrulians you know and recognize are only—the worker bees, I believe is the term you will understand best. Even we do not have a large understanding of their species, and only know what our Nyrulian little brothers and sisters here choose or are able to impart to us. But there is another form of Nyrulian, much larger than the worker bee. Those Nyrulians are able to release a neurotoxic—” the translator stumbles a little over the word, the whole meaning not quite coming through, “—gas, it is said, that is particularly potent.”

_They took me to a creature,_ Charles had said to Fury on the Strontium, _it was dark and I found it very hard to breathe._

“It is my guess that Francis was subjected to this toxin,” Saran-Mel continues, “and I have ordered the appropriate tests to ensure that no traces still remain inside his body. The lasting effects, however, are not so easily treated.”

“But you _can_ treat him,” Erik says, so nauseated that he has to put his hand out and find the wall to steady himself. Charles. “You can help him.”

“I can help him,” Saran-Mel answers, “but there is only so much even I can do.” He puts a hand on Erik’s shoulder when he takes in a shuddering breath. “Peace, little brother. Hope is not gone. You should be proud of your mate. He is resilient. He is strong.”

“Stronger than me,” Erik chokes out, drawing in another breath like there’s a shortage of oxygen. It certainly feels that way. “He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.”

The corners of Saran-Mel’s eyes wrinkle, a more subtle Gandorian smile. “If he has your unshakable belief in him behind him, then I too am confident.” He withdraws his hand, long legs stepping around Erik, fluid as a stream around a rock. “Go to him, little brother. Find peace with each other.”

Erik nods, breathing easier. “Thank you.”

“Humans are curious, that they have a word for gratitude,” Saran-Mel remarks idly, his voice drifting back over one furry shoulder as he walks away, “why speak at all when the sentiment is already known?”

Erik takes an extra moment longer to collect himself, slowly straightening. Saran-Mel is right. Charles endured hell, but he still stood at Erik’s side on the bridge of the Heartsteel and made sure every last member of their crew made it off the failing ship safely. Charles is hurt, grievously so, but Charles is not broken. Not at all.

Charles is still sitting up in bed when Erik walks back into the room, one arm thrown over the bridge of his nose to cover his eyes. When he hears Erik’s footsteps he lowers his arm, and judging by his face alone he looks inches from cracking, eyes wide and wild.

“Erik—”

“Hey,” Erik says, wasting no time in climbing back onto the biobed and into Charles’ reaching arms, sliding up next to him and rolling onto his side so that he faces Charles, since Charles is still stuck for now on his back. “I’m here. I ran into Saran-Mel in the hallway and was held up.”

Charles doesn’t say anything at first, twisting his torso as much as he can to face Erik as well, fingers digging into the front of Erik’s shirt tightly. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers at last, and it takes Erik a moment to realize he means before, not now. “After Creed—I thought you were _gone_ —”

“You heard what I said,” Erik answers gently, shifting closer still so that Charles can bury his face in his shoulder. Charles will talk himself in exhausting circles when he’s upset, but left alone he’ll twist himself up thinking too long and hard, and evidently Erik’s been on his mind a lot lately. “It’ll take someone of higher caliber than Creed to bring me down.”

“I thought you bled out on that asteroid,” Charles says, voice muffled but heavy with weariness.

“As if Summers and Howlett would allow that,” Erik answers, aiming for a lighter tone but ends up swallowing painfully around their names. “I was told Rogers wanted to go after you and Stark immediately, but they told him to fuck off and went to get me and drag me up to McCoy.”

“Thank god for Scott and Logan,” Charles says with a sound that could equate to a small, borderline hysterical laugh.

“Never thought we’d see the day, hm?” Erik slides his hand around Charles’ back, slowly stroking up and down. “Those two fuckups.” There’s no heat to his voice, unable to muster up the usual derision he so often applied to them. How could he now, when he owes them more than they’ll ever know? Not just for his own life but for Charles’ as well—Erik couldn’t have done it without them.

Charles pulls back a little, not far enough to break completely out of Erik’s hold but enough as to where he can look up at Erik with exhausted, pained eyes. “I thought you were dead and I was inconsolable,” he says quietly, “and we’ve done the same to them. They think we’re dead.”

Erik’s first instinct is to argue, to reassure Charles that it’s not the same—he and Charles are lovers, while Scott and Logan and the rest of their crew are all only their friends. But he knows while not exactly the same, the fact of the matter remains that Scott and Logan—and Rogers and Stark and Emma—loved them too, even if in very different and varying ways. Erik doesn’t even know the agony of wholly believing Charles to be dead; he’d still had the tiniest scrap of hope Charles would be kept alive until Erik could reach him.

It hadn’t been their intent to inflict that kind of devastation and loss on their friends, but it comes as part of the cost.

“If we ever see them again,” Charles says into Erik’s silence, “they will never forgive us.”

“We made our choice,” Erik tells him softly, “for their sake, and for _our_ sake. I can’t regret that. Not if I get to be here with you, alive and safe.”

“I know,” Charles says, still pale and stricken, “I know.”

“I’ve picked a prosthetic out,” Erik says after a few moments of silence, hoping his change in subject isn’t completely tactless. He’s getting to a point at least. “The Adamantium one.”

“That one is difficult to calibrate,” Charles says quietly, because of course he remembers.

“I know. But Hajeena-Maral says I’m in good enough shape for it. The surgery is next week.” Erik holds Charles’ gaze purposefully. “Don’t worry about me. I...spoke to Saran-Mel when I saw him in the hall. I’m alright, Charles. I’ll be alright.”

“Their lack of patient confidentiality is astounding,” Charles says softly, but nods slowly. “I know you will be. Of course you will be.”

“Of course,” Erik repeats firmly, with all the confidence he can muster.

“I’m sorry I didn’t want you here,” Charles starts, but Erik shakes his head.

“Don’t be,” he answers, “don’t be sorry, not to me. I should have realized first myself.” He pauses, wincing. “I’m sorry I asked Saran-Mel about you. It’s none of my business. I just—” he breaks off, that hot and molten feeling returning. “I love you,” he says, leaning in close to rest his forehead against Charles’ and closing his eyes. It’s easier to confess this way. “I love you so much it terrifies me, and yet it doesn’t, because it’s you.”

Charles makes a small sound close to a sob, fingers tightening on Erik’s jacket again. “It is your business,” he whispers, “you’re my mate.”

Erik lets out a short, wet laugh. “I am,” he agrees, “as long as you’ll have me.”

“I’ve loved you from the start,” Charles breathes, and Erik feels something close to peace click into place inside him. “I’ll always want you.”

“Even if I start talking to you about how male sea urchins have five gonads,” Erik asks, and Charles pulls back abruptly with a small, startled exhale that can almost count as a laugh, “and explain to you in great detail how they squeeze their gametes out into the water for fertilization purposes?”

“You remembered that,” Charles says, surprised, “you actually _listened_ to all that.”

“I was always listening,” Erik assures him, “even when you rambled on about sea urchins, I was listening.”

It wins him a smile—small and wan, not at all the full brightness Charles is capable of, but a smile nonetheless, lightyears better than the expression Charles had been wearing when Erik first entered the room only minutes ago.

_Find peace with each other,_ Saran-Mel had suggested, and if peace comes in the form of prickly First Earth marine life, then Erik finds he can’t complain at all.

 

X

 

The week passes in a long blur. Saran-Mel returns promptly every day and during that time Erik heads back to Hajeena-Maral to be poked, prodded, and otherwise verbally abused by the female Gandorian while she works on constructing his new hand.

She focuses first on his stump, taking scan after scan from every angle imaginable, building a complete map of his arm—every nerve ending, every vein and blood vessel, every layer of epidermis, so that by the end of her diagramming, Erik is certain that she could draw a detailed cross section of his arm with her eyes shut. Her focus then switches to his remaining hand and wrist, taking measurements and weighing it and examining it just as closely as she did his stub.

Erik’s come to like her, and her straightforward if not borderline abrasive personality. She doesn’t mince words and despite the fact that she never goes out of her way to make him feel particularly welcome—more often than not Erik feels more like an interesting lab rat than an actual patient—he suspects that she’s come to like him too, however grudgingly.

Charles’ progress is harder to gauge. Some days when Erik returns, Charles is worn out but calm, steady enough as he asks Erik about how his appointment with Hajeena-Maral went. Other days he’s wide-eyed and upset, distressed by whatever it is he and Saran-Mel have discussed, and Erik feels nothing short of useless even as he curls around Charles to hold him while he shakes. The tests the Gandorian psychiatrist had ordered to determine whether or not the Nyrulian neurotoxin still lingered in Charles’ system had all come back negative, but it’s a small relief in the face of the toxin’s more lasting effects.

“The gas is hallucinogenic,” Saran-Mel explains to Erik during one of the short reports he gives whenever he sees Erik on his way back to Charles’ room, “and with it, the Nyrulians are able to make those who they subject to it see, hear, and feel things that are not real. The toxin infects one’s subconscious to create images or sensations that are particularly pertinent to the one it is affecting, strongly enough for them to feel true and real. Francis has seen many things that he finds horrifying or otherwise emotionally traumatizing. Do you understand, Max?”

“They tried to drive him insane,” Erik whispers, and Saran-Mel has to put both hands on Erik’s shoulders to steady him when his knees go weak with horror.

“They did not succeed,” Saran-Mel tells him, calm but intent. “Francis is not wholly mentally sound, but he endured, Max.”

“It’s my fault,” Erik says faintly, swaying slightly in Saran-Mel’s grip, because he can’t say this to Charles. Charles wouldn’t allow it, doesn’t believe it. “It should have been me, it never should have been him. They should have taken _me_.” Helpless anger nearly threatens to overwhelm him, vision swimming.

“Francis spoke yesterday of a stepbrother.” Saran-Mel keeps his hold on Erik, and Erik is fairly certain that the Gandorian is the only reason he hasn’t listed sideways against the wall and into collapse. “It appears to me this stepbrother holds great animosity towards him. Would he not have attacked Francis when the opportunity arose?”

Erik shakes his head. He doesn’t know the exact extent of the truth Charles has told Saran-Mel, but either way he has to be careful. The thought is sobering enough to calm him somewhat, and he takes a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Do not blame yourself for things that are already in the past, little brother,” Saran-Mel says gently, blinking his eyes slowly as he studies Erik in the bright lights of the hospital corridor. “It is clear Francis does not hold you responsible. That should be enough.”

Erik lets out a sound that could be a laugh, but it’s too flat and lacks the energy needed for it to truly qualify. “It’s human to be guilty.”

“That may be,” the Gandorian acknowledges, inclining his head once. “But I will ask you this. Will you wallow in your self-inflicted guilt, or will you hold to your word and keep constant and steady for him? You cannot help him if you are lost inside yourself, Max. If I may speak candidly…”

“Aren’t you already?” Erik asks blankly, but nods his acquiescence anyway.

Saran-Mel smiles thinly with sharp canines. “I cannot be fully accurate and only assume, as you are not my patient, but it has been my observation, both directly through our conversations in this hallway and indirectly through listening to Francis speak of you, but more often than not he is the one who keeps _you_ steady. Am I wrong?”

Erik swallows, the motion painful against his dry mouth and throat. “I’m...without him…”

He spent years with iron-willed control over himself, unshakable and unmovable with Charles at his side on the bridge of the Heartsteel. The moment Charles was taken away from him that first time, and the second time…

Erik lost his shit completely, Logan and Scott would say.

“He is my star,” he says, uncaring if that makes sense to the Gandorian or not. It makes sense to Erik. It makes all the sense in the universe.

Saran-Mel merely accepts this answer, nodding again in understanding. “Then I will repeat myself once more. _You_ must be the steady one now, Max. Focus your energies not on berating yourself, but holding sure and strong for Francis. His recovery will hinge on it, of this I am certain.”

Erik thinks he must nod, because his mouth is definitely too dry now for him to speak.

“Do not forget the guilt,” Saran-Mel says, gradually letting go of him until Erik stands on his own once more, “but do not let it rule you.” His gaze flickers across Erik’s face, assessing. “You and Francis have met with terrible fates, but this is not the end, little brother. You will both see this through. You will both find peace.”

But peace isn’t an option, Erik thinks as he watches Saran-Mel go. Not with him and Charles both still reeling from what the Nyrulians have done to them, and not with the galaxy threatening to dissolve into war. Not right now.

He was a fool to think otherwise.

 


	4. You cannot carry him forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there, guys! This chapter is rough, and **extra warnings** include graphic details of pain, as well as (consensual) surgery performed on a conscious subject. We promise, however, that next chapter is the one most of you are probably waiting for - we just had to make it over this hurdle first!

 

On the sixth day, the day before Erik’s surgery is supposed to take place, Erik wakes to find Charles pale and tense beside him in the biobed, fingers clenched in the sheets and staring up at the ceiling as if his life depends on it.

“Charles?” Erik asks, still not entirely fully awake yet. He’d been drifting up gradually into wakefulness, but once he’d been aware enough to register how tight and tense Charles’ body has gone, it had given him an extra boost. He sits up, blinking the remains of sleep from his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“If I don’t get out of this room,” Charles says with a calm so forced and false that it leaves Erik with every hair on the back of his neck standing on end, “I do believe I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Charles,” Erik says numbly, “your legs. They can’t move, you have to stay...”

Charles turns his gaze to Erik, and his eyes are wide, pupils dilated with, Erik realizes with a sickening jolt, fear. “I’ve been strapped down to this bed since I woke up,” Charles says, some of his composure starting to crumble and his voice shaking, “and I can’t take it anymore, Erik, I can’t, I _can’t_ —”

Erik slides sideways off the bed, straightening and turning around as soon as his feet touch the floor. He yanks the blankets off the bed so violently that even the thin sheet goes tumbling off the end of the bed, and then sets to work undoing the soft cloth straps that have served to hold Charles’ legs still and in place.

“I need you to breathe with me, Charles,” he says as he undoes one strap at a time, clumsy with just one hand but more than making up for it with sheer determination.

Charles’ breath is coming short and quick, but as he watches Erik fumble with the straps he obediently breathes in and out in time with Erik, his first few breaths stuttering and shaky but then gradually even out to being slower and deeper. Calmer.

Erik gets the last strap on Charles’ left ankle undone, leaving Charles lying freed on the biobed, covered only by the simple hospital shift he’s dressed in. He starts to try and sit up so Erik moves over to help him, gently helping him upright so he’s sitting up for the first time of his own volition, without the biobed tilted up as support.

“Better?” Erik asks him, watching Charles stare at his own legs. At an outside, surface level, they look perfectly normal, remnant from where the Nyrulians had performed a surficial full-body healing job on him in order to get Charles cleaned up and presentable as entertainment in the arena. Even the Gandorians had been polite enough to leave no scars from his knee surgery.

Charles’ eyes are still slightly wide, but his breathing is steadier and the traces of fear have faded, no longer on the edge of panic. “I had a dream—”

His voice cracks a little and Erik is ready for when he twists sideways to lean into Erik, wrapping his arms around Charles and resting his chin lightly on the top of Charles’ head. “You should have woken me sooner,” Erik says, not chiding or reproachful but simply stating the words as levelly as he can even while his heart aches. “You can tell me about the dream. Only if you want to.” The words are easy to say despite his burning need to know, to help, to somehow make things better. He knows Charles hasn’t been sleeping well—he barely sleeps at all, during the night cycles, and only dozes during the day.

Charles shakes his head silently, and Erik doesn’t push.

“Turuk-Altiv said something about moving you into the recovery ward eventually,” Erik says at length, smoothing his hand up and down along Charles’ spine slowly while Charles merely breathes. “Let’s ask him when he comes in what the status is on that.”

“I don’t want another room with another biobed,” Charles says tightly. “I don’t want to be strapped back down, I know it’s for my legs but I can’t do it anymore, Erik, I can’t _take_ it—”

“Easy,” Erik tells him softly, feeling his heart rate pick up again at just the sound of Charles’ near-hysteria. “No one’s going to do anything you don’t want.” Turuk-Altiv might not like it, but Erik is certain he can get Saran-Mel, at least, to side with him if it comes down to it. “Do your legs hurt to move?”

“They’re very sore,” Charles answers after a small pause where Erik watches him flex some of his muscles tentatively. “I don’t think I can be very mobile because of my knee but please—” he pulls back from Erik to look up at him with eyes watery with frustration and the lingering fear from his dream, “—they don’t have to be strapped down.”

“No more straps,” Erik promises, feeling a small pang at the pure relief in Charles’ eyes. “You need to start PT, though.” He frowns. “You should’ve started PT days ago.” So wrapped up in the matter of his prosthetic hand, and then always left off-balance by Saran-Mel’s brief reports on Charles, Erik realizes he hasn’t been checking in with Turuk-Altiv as often regarding Charles’ physical state.

“My nerves are still too damaged,” Charles explains, “but in the evenings when they come in to—wash me, they still help me through a few stretches.” Erik always leaves the room when the nurses come in to sponge Charles down, aware that Charles’ need for help for even things like bathing had been a strong enough blow to Charles’ pride without also having to endure Erik standing around watching.

“Then maybe it’s time to start amping up the PT,” Erik says, mostly thinking out loud to himself. “If your legs are that sore, then it must mean your nerves are healing.”

“I just—” Charles stops for a moment when his voice catches, breathing in and out. “Sometimes it feels like the walls are closing in,” he starts again, quieter and weary, “like the room is getting smaller and smaller, squeezing—” He cuts off again with a shudder, shaking his head.

“I’ve got you,” Erik says, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. He hates feeling this helpless, but he tamps down on that emotion and shoves it away. It’s not about him right now, it’s about Charles, and it’s always going to be solely about Charles as much as he can help it. “You know, I’ve seen some patients here using hoverchairs. When Turuk-Altiv gets here, let’s ask about getting you one. And if he doesn’t agree, then I’ll go steal one anyway.”

Charles slowly lets go of him, pulling back from Erik entirely so that he’s sitting on his own again. Erik lets him go gently, even though he’d rather keep holding on. “You’re going to get us thrown out of here,” he says, trying to sound reproachful but not quite managing to, the barest hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Like how you got us thrown out of the Betelgeuse starport?” Erik asks solemnly, but grins when Charles instantly colors, the slight red flush on his pale cheeks lovely.

“That wasn’t entirely my fault,” Charles protests, “I wasn’t the only one who—”

Erik chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Charles, you were the one driving.”

“Erik,” Charles huffs out his name, faintly exasperated, and Erik is struck by how he looks, his Charles, the most animated he’s been in days, and Erik can’t stop himself from reaching over to cup his cheek gently, swiping the pad of his thumb across the soft skin just beneath one trusting blue eye.

“Can I—?” he starts to ask, but Charles gives a small nod so Erik leans down and carefully presses their lips together. It’s halting and awkward at first, as if they’ve almost forgotten how to fit together because this is their first kiss since they stood together on the bridge of the Heartsteel seconds before their ship blew apart, but then Charles gives a soft sigh and parts his lips, leaning up into the kiss for more and all at once it’s quietly perfect.

Charles still has his eyes closed when they finally part, blinking them open slowly and knocking their foreheads together gently. “I love you,” he says, and in answer Erik kisses him again, just because he can.

X

“No,” Turuk-Altiv says when he arrives an hour later, Charles’ room one of his first stops as far as Erik can tell on his morning rounds. “His legs are still too susceptible to damage. A hoverchair is out of the question.”

“I’m not phrasing it as a question,” Erik says through gritted teeth. He stands on the opposite side of the biobed from the Gandorian, one hand on Charles’ hip while his stump hangs limply at his side, both shoulders tense. “I’m phrasing it as ‘Francis needs to be able to get out of this room and wants a hoverchair,’ so go get him one.”

Turuk-Altiv is unimpressed, flicking one of the hovering screens away impatiently. “As I am the one who is in charge of—”

“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Charles interrupts, polite but not overly so, something brittle in his expression as he looks up at the Gandorian. He’s so far refused to lie back down, remaining sitting up even when Turuk-Altiv tilted the biobed up. “You don’t have to hold the conversation over my head.”

“Sorry,” Erik tells him, a little abashed because he knows it was half a reprimand for him too.

“It’s alright,” Charles answers him, but keeps his gaze on Turuk-Altiv. “I’m not suggesting that you let me up to run a marathon. All I want is a hoverchair so I can move around and get some fresh air. This room is starting to feel claustrophobic, which I promise you Saran-Mel will tell you is counterproductive to my health, both mentally _and_ physically.”

“I’m happy to go find Saran-Mel to ask him to weigh in with his opinion,” Erik speaks up again, “though I’m sure Francis is correct.”

Turuk-Altiv sighs. “That will not be necessary.” He considers both of them, eyes tracking back and forth between them. “I suppose asking you to put the straps back on is—”

“ _No_ ,” Charles and Erik say at the same time, which leaves the Gandorian looking amused.

“I do not like when patients are difficult,” he tells them matter-of-factly, and despite Erik’s snort he continues, “nor does it particularly please me when said patients are correct.”

Charles gives a hint of a smile, more relieved than smug. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Hm,” Turuk-Altiv says skeptically, flat-out avoiding even looking at Erik. “We will run one more diagnostics test on your legs this afternoon, and from there decide the next step of your recovery. Max has his surgery tomorrow, no?”

“Yes,” Erik says, pushing down the flutter of dread that immediately springs up in his stomach at the reminder. “It’s tomorrow.”

Charles reaches down to cover Erik’s hand with one of his own.

“A compromise, then,” Turuk-Altiv says. “No hoverchair today, but after Max’s surgery, I will have you both moved into the recovery wing, and Francis may have a hoverchair then.”

Erik glances sideways at Charles.

“Deal,” Charles concedes with a small nod, and Turuk-Altiv snaps his teeth in satisfaction.

“You’re sure it’s alright?” Erik asks him later once the Gandorian has left, leaving the two of them alone again until it’s time for Erik to clear out of the room and go see Hajeena while Saran-Mel visits Charles. “I can go push for getting you one today.”

“It worries me that he might eat you for causing more strife on the matter,” Charles answers, wearily dry. He’s given in to leaning back against the biobed again, though he keeps it in its upright tilt. “No, it’s fine. The promise of being moved to the recovery wing alone is reassuring enough. I was starting to feel like we’d been stuck in time, doing the same thing every day in the same place.”

Erik frowns. “We can move you today. Odds are I’m going to end up in recovery anyway when they take me out of surgery.”

Charles shakes his head. “It’s fine, Erik. I can wait.”

“Alright,” Erik relents. He makes a mental note to ask Turuk-Altiv about more PT for Charles anyway. “I just don’t want you to keep feeling trapped.”

“It comes and goes,” Charles says quietly after a small pause, clearly deciding to be honest rather than not. “It helps that the straps are gone.”

“If he tries to strap you down while I’m gone—”

“I’m sure he won’t, Erik,” Charles assures him with another faint smile. “I don’t think he’s as nefarious as you tend to make him out to be. Patient care is really his top goal.”

“His methods leave a lot to desire,” Erik says flatly.

“They aren’t what we’re used to,” Charles allows, “but they’ve taken good care of us. We’re not hurt anymore.”

“That matters little to me if you’re still uncomfortable,” Erik says tightly, not quite looking at him. Instead he stands over by the single window, transparent again for now, watching various Gandorian doctors and other alien species patients alike as they pass.

“Erik.” When he finally looks back over at Charles, he’s regarding Erik with something close to fond ruefulness. “I’ll be okay. I had a nightmare. Those are, I think, going to be quite common for awhile. Unfortunately.”

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘okay,’” Erik tells him, unwilling to concede the point.

“I rather think mine counts more in regards to myself,” Charles points out, still calm. “You’re not my boss anymore, either, if you’ll recall.”

Erik winces. It’s another small but pointed jab at the conversation with Turuk-Altiv. “I know. I—” He falters, words coagulating clumsily in his mouth. Charles merely watches him, blinking slowly and waiting. Erik takes a breath, reorganizing his thoughts into a straight line. “I want you to be okay,” he says, taking a step towards the biobed, “but I don’t want you to be okay if you’re _not_ okay.”

Charles stays very still for a moment and Erik is suddenly, oddly, hyperaware of the low-level hum of some of the equipment, sounds he hadn’t even been aware of until now while he hangs in suspension, waiting. It’s almost as if he can feel the currents in the air, too, clean oxygen pumped into the room from a small vent in one corner of the high ceiling.

Then Charles breathes out, a long shuddering breath that leaves him looking exhausted. “I’m not okay,” he says, the admission loud in the room even though his voice is quiet. “What they did to me—” his voice threatens to crack, so he shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not okay.”

Erik moves, propelled at last into kinetic motion again and he crosses the rest of the distance back to the biobed in three easy strides. Charles reaches out for him and Erik climbs back into bed, settling themselves together into their usual position, ever mindful of Charles’ legs. “I know,” Erik says, even though he doesn’t know, not at all, and they both know it. “Just don’t...you don’t have to pretend. Not for me.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to,” Charles says distantly, even as he curls into Erik’s side. He swallows. “I know my limits, though. I can last until after your surgery.”

Erik shifts to accommodate him, fitting them both together as closely as possible. “Then you can last until after the surgery,” he agrees. He’s pushed enough already, dragging Charles’ confession out between his teeth. He trusts Charles. He does. But he also knows Charles, and Charles’ particular tendency to put his own needs aside. “Just one more day.”

“One more day,” Charles repeats with a small nod. His eyes have drifted closed, and while he sounds drowsy Erik knows he won’t sleep. “You’re going to be awake during it?”

“I think so,” Erik says as evenly as possible, pushing down his own fear. “It’s too bad you can’t come and sit by the bed while Hajeena operates. Keep me from being bored.”

Charles cracks an eye open. “From what you’ve been alluding to all week, it sounds like you might be too busy with _pain_ to be bored.”

“It’s not supposed to be a walk in the park,” Erik admits as casually as he can. Charles doesn’t need to know that inwardly, Erik has never dreaded anything more. “She has to connect all my nerve endings to the new hand, which probably won’t be fun. But I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Charles doesn’t look entirely convinced but he seems too tired to argue, which Erik has been depending on. The way Hajeena had briefly described it four days ago, he’s basically going to be strapped down to the operating table with nurses on standby to help hold him down while he screams. Charles doesn’t need to hear about that. Not after what he’s been through.

“Aside from getting a hover chair, do you feel ready to start on PT?” Erik asks him after a few moments of silence. “Get walking again?”

“It will be nice to walk around,” Charles agrees mechanically.

“There isn’t a rush,” Erik tells him carefully, aware that he’s somehow treading on very fragile ground. “I’m not in a hurry. There’s...there’s nothing we should be doing, other than focusing on healing.” It’s strange. He’s never been at such loose ends before in his life. He’s always been in motion, hurtling forwards at a thousand light years per second, and now he’s...at a standstill.

No wonder Charles had felt like he’d been frozen in time.

“I want to walk,” Charles says, so quietly that Erik has to lean in more to hear him, “but I’m so _tired_ , Erik. I want to close my eyes and just sleep for a year.” He bites his lower lip, worrying at the flesh, brow creased. “It feels like giving up, but I just want to sleep.”

“You can sleep,” Erik says, swallowing down a lump in his throat. “Sleep as long as you want. I’ll be here to wake you up. I won’t let you fall, Charles.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Charles whispers, and echoes what Erik told him on the very first day he’d woken up, “I couldn’t do this without you either.”

“I haven’t been able to do anything without you ever since you bought me new shoes in the first week of our acquaintance,” Erik tells him tiredly, half-joking and yet painfully honest. “I’ve said it before, or you’ve said it before, I don’t remember, but—I’m glad it’s us. No one else. You’re all I need.” He brushes a floppy curl of hair away from Charles’ face gently. “I’m with you. No matter what, I’m with you.”

“You’re very determined,” Charles says, but already he sounds calmer, not as shaky or lost.

“Howlett and Summers had a different term for it,” Erik says dryly, offering a small quirk of his lips. “We’ll get there, Charles. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, if I have to prop you up, or if you have to prop me up. If we have to leave pieces behind—” his voice catches despite himself, and he clears his throat. “We aren’t going to be the same. But we’re together. For me, it’s enough.”

Charles reaches up to curl one hand around the back of Erik’s neck, pulling him down into a soft kiss. “It’s enough,” he repeats, letting out a long sigh of released tension when they part, “it’s enough.”

They stay like that in the biobed until Saran-Mel comes, and even then it’s still hard for Erik to make himself leave.

X

Hajeena doesn’t need him for long today with everything already prepped for the looming surgery set for tomorrow, telling him not to eat anything for dinner or breakfast before kicking him out.

Erik goes back to the deck that has the small, private rooms with the holoscreens lining every inch of the walls and this time he sits on a darkened First Earth, looking up at constellations that he can remember from his youth, when the stars were all still millions of light years away.

X

“I thought it was Gandorian policy to give full-body sedation for every surgery,” Erik says as he wrestles into the set of shirt and trousers he’s been given. The fabric is odd, fluid and cool to the touch like it’s just a point away from going from solid to liquid. It’s better than a hospital gown, he supposes.

“I will need you awake for this,” Hajeena-Maral says, from the other side of the privacy screen. “I will numb the arm up until the point where I require you to help me connect the nerves.”

 _Maddening pain_ , thinks Erik, allowing his shoulders to slump, here out of sight. “How long will the surgery take?”

“About three hours.”

Erik braces himself. Three hours lying on his back watching Gandorians operate on his arm doesn’t sound like a good afternoon.

When he comes out from behind the screen, he’s surprised to find Hajeena-Maral wearing something very similar to what he’s been given, although her scrubs are a silvery grey where his are light blue.

As far as Erik has been able to learn from their acquaintance, Hajeena-Maral regards the investment of time and effort into reassurances and comfort as a waste. Hajeena believes in facts and evidence, not good wishes and hopeful expectations. It’s refreshing, in a stunningly disquieting way, to be tended to by someone who’s as unwilling as they are _unable_ to coddle their patients.

“It took six hours of surgery to put this leg on me,” she says, tapping her claws on the graceful curve of Adamantium of her thigh, muffled through the material of her surgery scrubs. “The pain was indescribable, but as you can see, I lived through it. And, after all, I rather doubt any pain can match having your hand and wrist twisted and torn off your arm.”

Erik leans back against the biobed, hoping that the nausea rolling unsteadily in his stomach doesn’t show on his face. Hajeena-Maral’s straightforward businesslike attitude towards what he’s gone through is normally a safe harbor for him—a place where he can go and find not pity, not delicate tact, not the wide-eyed warm concern that Charles throws in his direction that at the best of times twists Erik up in knots and at the worst infuriates him, but the kind of unmalicious indifference that comes from looking at someone’s trauma from the other side of the fence they’re climbing now.

But the nausea must show, because Hajeena-Maral crosses her arms, waiting him out.

“I don’t know that,” he starts, has to stop to swallow. “I can handle the pain...with dignity.”

“There is no dignity in pain,” she replies calmly, startling him. “My throat was raw by the time my surgery ended. For days I could speak no louder than a rasp. Pain is a solitary thing, an ugly and inelegant thing. How you tolerate or fail to tolerate pain does not define you or make you less brave. Do you think Francis screamed and cried when they were destroying his mind with toxic gas?”

A wash of cold fury steals Erik’s breath, leaves him light-headed. “How did you know—”

Hajeena-Maral ignores him and presses on relentlessly. “And if he had, would you think less of him for it?”

“ _Never_ ,” he manages to snarl.

“And you think yourself better than him?”

“ _No!_ ” he yells at her, furious.

She stares at him, steady and calm, like a rock. She’s so still that Erik fancies he can hear the echoes of his own voice in the room, bouncing against her and returning to him vague and faded. He finds the truth in what she’s said, in what he’s said.

“You cannot carry him forever,” she says, shrewdly, unkindly. “You cannot hope to hide your pain from him as though he’s a child whom you must protect, and yet expect him to share his with you. That is a childish sort of love, a proud love. A condescending one. You think your pain makes you weak, and you think weakness is ‘undignified.’ But his pain— _his_ makes him stronger. You see, I hope, what is wrong with this mentality?”

Erik stares at her, mouth and throat dry.

“Scream if you must, cry if you must, tell me to stop when it’s too much. Do not make the mistake of thinking I will think more of you for failing to do these things.”

Shock and a sinking sort of understanding keep Erik quiet until they lead him into the operating room and guide him down to lie on a cross-shaped biobed, his left arm strapped down and outstretched on a rest. One of the Gandorian nurses takes one look at him shivering on the table and then, unexpectedly, drapes a warm blanket over him, taking a moment to lay her hand kindly across his forehead, soothingly, before pressing down on the bundle of nerves under his armpit and numbing his arm completely.

None of the nurses are wearing universal translators. Their suits make them even more alien in Erik’s eyes, tall and looming and covered entirely in light-blue fabric, with face masks that are almost muzzles. The snatches of Gandorian he hears from them sound a lot like clicks and bites and hisses and murmurs of tongue on teeth. He can make no sense of any of it.

Hajeena-Maral takes a moment to show him the prosthetic before getting to work. Erik forces himself to look at it, more than a cursory glance. He’s seen the designs and the holographic projections, seen them fitted through lines of light to his stump, but the actual physical thing—certainly finishes driving it home.

It’s made of gleaming silver metal, panels of it carefully fitted one against the other, half-rings from one side of the hand to the other where the seam for calibration is, servos and mechanical gears covered by black rubber in the inch before the next plate begins running on the underside of the hand. Rough rubber covers the undersides of the fingers and palm, for grip.

As he watches, Hajeena-Maral taps something and the plates along the top of the prosthetic open like a bloom, revealing the complex mechanisms concealed in the design, and the loose wires that will attack to his nerves.

There are a lot of wires.

Erik swallows.

“Human flesh does not naturally flow into metal,” Hajeena-Maral says. “The seam and insides of this prosthetic has been specifically bioengineered to your genetic code, so that your body will believe this is your real arm and not a foreign object. That is not to say your body will accept it at once, and you should expect discomfort once I undo the numbing. Pins and needles and such, anything that feels odd and alien but is not actively negative, that is within the spectrum of acceptable. Pain or anything that makes it difficult to bear, you must tell me about immediately. If the raw flesh of your stump can’t take the seam, the graft will fail and we must consider options.”

“But you’ve tested this every which way and then some more,” Erik protests.

“Yes, but human bodies are fragile and whimsical things. Consider getting some sleep, I need to skin your stump—oh, forgive me. That was a bad choice of words.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” Erik snarls at her, swallowing bile.

For the next hour and a half, he has absolutely nothing to do besides stare at the ceiling, stare at the far wall, shift his legs stare at the other wall, look through the window to the prep room beyond it which is empty and uninteresting, and studiously avoid looking at what they’re doing to his left arm, because the one time he risked it there looked like there was a lot of blood, and also something else, not liquid, nauseatingly red and wet.

Unbelievably, he ends up dozing off. He doesn’t remember when but he definitely must, because Hajeena-Maral eventually wakes him, patting his chest with a gloved hand. He startles awake, shocked he fell asleep, and blinks at her.

“Now for the ugly part,” she says softly. “Brace yourself.”

Fear clogs up Erik’s throat, and he almost chokes on his long inhale of air. He notices that Hajeena-Maral has clicked on the restraints on the biobed, pinning him to it exactly where he lays. One of the nurses rounds the bed to his other side and lays a hand on his right shoulder. Erik thinks it might be the same one that brushed his forehead before.

Erik looks at Hajeena-Maral and nods, one short, jerky motion. He doesn’t watch as she takes her hand to his armpit, and for the next few seconds he—knows _nothing_.

It can’t be described. It’s fire, it’s ice, it’s something that burns all across his arm to his shoulder, engulfing him entirely. It’s the only thing that exist, that pain. Everything else is inky blackness and unfocused blurred shapes. He thrashes, he knows because the pain gets worse, he stops screaming because he can’t get breath through it.

Time warps and slips and fractures into shards. Impossible to tell how long it is before his body goes limp on the biobed, like he’s hit up against a threshold beyond which pain is an anecdote. What he snaps back to is _still_ agony, still maddening and he’s _desperate_ for it to stop, but he can’t think through it.

Hajeena-Maral’s hands are on his shoulders, and she’s looming over him, silent and firm. On his other side the nurse is holding his hand. His grip must be painful, but the nurse makes only soothing noises when he darts his eyes up to her, and her other hand finds his forehead again. A kind Gandorian is enough of a dislocation from the norm that he can find puzzlement through the pain.

“Tell me to stop,” Hajeena-Maral says softly. “And I will.”

Erik shakes his head feebly. “We’re here now. Do it.”

She doesn’t insist. Swiftly, without a word, she goes to the armrest and picks up something.

“I only need your help for a moment,” she says. “Move your thumb.”

Erik grits his teeth and thinks of doing that, of curving the digit into his palm, a palm and a digit he no longer has. The pain is like fire up to his elbow, the nerve raw and exposed, but it’s nothing compared to the flash of _agony_ that follows it when nerve and wire finally connect and recognize each other. The wave of it leaves him breathless, tear-stained, covered in sweat. The nurse makes soothing noises, long thumb brushing away the tears.

“Again.”

Erik grits his teeth and does. It’s back to a lower sort of pain, a thrumming, a hum, not unlike molten metal poured into the path from thumb to elbow to shoulder. He thinks he understands; Hajeena-Maral is walking him through acquainting nerve and prosthetic wire, so that thinking of moving his fingers will move the fingers in the prosthetic hand.

He gets through the index and middle fingers before he begs for her to stop, moving restlessly against the restraints. She does, to his absolute shock, stop, and come back to his side.

“You’re doing so well, little brother,” she says, tone low and soft, laying her hand on his heaving chest. It’s rare she’ll call him that, and it stalls his confused mind. “More than halfway through, and then you can sleep.”

Erik stares at her, breath hitching. “You’re not going to stop.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “No. If I stop now, we’ll have to remove the hand in another surgery. We’ve come this far, Max. You’re not coming out of this OR without a hand to show for your efforts.”

He extracts his real hand from the nurse’s to rub roughly up and down his face, and finally nods, tired and resigned.

“Make it fucking count, because I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Don’t. I’ll have to wake you up. It’s worse when you wake up to it. Believe me.”

He does.

By the time she’s done, all fingers connected and working, his wrist able to rotate, his throat feels like he’s shredded it with glass. Every single muscle in his body hurts, and breathing rarely ends without a hitched, pathetic little sob. He doesn’t dare look at whatever it is that lies at the end of his left arm. The pain is muted now, like a banked ember, a distant throbbing that only gets worse with his intermittent, broken shudders.

“He can sleep for the rest of it,” Hajeena-Maral says eventually. The nurse at his side leans over him and numbs his arm. Erik thinks the relief he gets from the absence of pain is like nothing he’s ever experienced, but he can’t be sure—he blacks out immediately.

X

When he next opens his eyes, it’s to a blurry impression of a recovery room, and Turuk-Altiv sitting next to him in a tall-backed chair with a tablet in his hands.

The idea of Turuk-Altiv standing vigil for him is so incongruous that he stares at him for a long moment, trying to reconcile it. He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but the pain hits him like a slap, and he manages only a broken grunt.

The Gandorian looks up at that, silver eyes sympathetic.

“Mustn't speak,” he says, leaning forward to brush his fingers over the surface of what Erik realizes is a regenerator wrapped around his throat. “You did very real damage to your vocal cords.”

Erik nods slowly, carefully. The rest of his body feels sore and overtaxed, but it feels like the fatigue of too much exercise, too much effort. Erik still doesn’t quite understand why Turuk-Altiv is sitting here next to him like he actually understands the concept of keeping his patients company, though. He wonders how he can communicate that question with a hand gesture and gives it up before he even tries.

Turuk-Altiv tips his head to the side. “Francis asked me to come to you. He cannot yet walk, and you cannot be out of this room. The idea of you being alone distressed him.”

Erik tries to relax on the bed, ignore the warmth of the regenerator working on his throat. Swallowing aches. Turuk-Altiv watches him, and then pointedly tips his head to the side and down, eyes dipping.

Erik braces himself and follows his line of sight.

The hand gleams against the covers in his lap, sleek and elegant lines; even his new wrist appears deceptively delicate. It aches, distantly, although it’s nothing compared to what he remembers from the surgery. His forearm isn’t bandaged above the prosthetic, and he can see the clean cuts, sutured, where Hajeena-Maral opened him up to the elbow to graft metal to bone and give the arm added support. He wonders how well that will scar.

“I was warned to ask you to refrain from moving it,” Turuk-Altiv says softly. “It has only been four hours since the surgery and the nerves are very irritated still. As far as I have been informed, it was a complete success.”

Erik isn’t entirely sure what he feels about the whole thing. Vaguely nauseous, mostly. It’s at the end of his arm and it’s hand shaped, but he’s not sure he can call it...his hand. Fatigue weighs on him, sinking him to the bed and making his eyes heavy and uncooperative. He decides to welcome sleep, and closes his eyes again.

Turuk-Altiv is gone the next time he wakes up, but the nurse who’d helped Erik through the surgery is there with him, this time wearing a universal translator and peeling what looks like an orange, if oranges were ever bright purple, with her elongated claws. The regenerator is gone, but his throat feels dry and parched. He makes a hoarse sound and the nurse sits up, giving him a glass of cool water from the nearby table.

“Thank you,” he rasps, nodding at her.

“It has been eight hours since the surgery,” she says, getting up to lean over him and take a look at his arm. “So far it looks wonderful. If you are not feeling groggy anymore, I will walk you to your mate’s room.”

Erik does feel groggy, but the sensation dispels at the idea of being allowed to rejoin Charles, so it’s not exactly a lie when he tells her he’s fine. She wordlessly helps him when he sways to his feet, and walks a step behind him the whole way back to the wing where Charles’ room is, saying nothing about the way he holds his new hand in front of him like it might explode at any moment.

It doesn’t hurt. For now. Hajeena had said she would numb it to allow the nerves to heal and the swelling and irritation to go down, but the numbness won’t last. And soon enough the immunosuppressants will begin to have an actual effect on the limb, from the collarbone down. That should be pleasant.

He makes slow progress through the corridors, and is genuinely grateful when he finally arrives at Charles’ door. The window isn’t opaque; Erik takes a moment to lean against it and look inside, take in the sight—

“What—” he rushes inside, startled and alarmed.

“Max!” Charles says, delighted, relief apparent in his eyes.

“Max,” Hajeena says flatly, without even taking her eyes from her cards. Erik stares at her, dumbfounded.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Playing cards,” she answers slowly, eyes sliding up to him like she thinks he’d the dumbest creature in this quadrant. “Obviously.”

“Hajeena has been kind enough to keep me company,” Charles says, mustering up one of his rare smiles for her. “She’s delightful, Max, you hadn’t told me.”

“Must have wanted to keep me all to himself,” Hajeena says sweetly, staring at Erik like he’s spit on the floor. “Greedy, greedy Max.”

Charles laughs. Erik’s mouth snaps shut on his scathing protest, his anger muted at once by Charles’ laughter. It’s soft and brief, but it’s been awhile since Erik’s heard even this much, and it feels like ointment on a raw burn.

“Hm,” says Hajeena, and flicks a card down on the table. “I believe I win.”

“Oh,” Charles blinks. “Yes, that’s right. You’re a fast learner, Hajeena.”

“I have a great many talents,” Hajeena answers lazily, slapping the rest of her cards face-down on the table. “And, of course, a great many appointments as well. I shall leave you two to it. Max, a word before I leave.”

“Yes,” Erik says slowly, and allows Hajeena to steer him out into the hallway and close the door behind them. Her eyes rake over Erik, judging, weighing.

“It is your hand now,” she says calmly. “It might not look like it and you might not feel like at the moment, but it is. You must accept that. You must use it. You—”

“I know,” Erik interrupts testily. “I’m not a puppy. I understand I have to—get used to it.”

“Yes,” drawls Hajeena. “I can see how well you will adjust already.”

Erik opens his mouth, scathing retort already on his tongue, but Hajeena reaches surprisingly out and lays a hand on his arm, oddly gentle.

“You are a very trying patient, Max. I don’t mind pushing you when I must, but you cannot be bullied into this. You must do this yourself, in your own time. Your body has accepted the hand, but your mind is a powerful thing. Do not let it hinder you. I will see you tomorrow.”

Erik swallows thickly and nods, wordless. Hajeena squeezes his arm once, and then unbelievably waves at Charles through the glass window and walks away, bone and metal claws clicking on the glossy plastic floors.

Exhaling shakily, Erik slides back into Charles’ room.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.

“How am _I_ feeling?” asks Charles, arching his brows. Erik wants to say something, but his jaw feels tight and rusty. He clenches his teeth instead, swallowing. He forces himself to look down at his own arm.

The hand is an identical twin to his own, crafted in adamantium and sleek blue cybernetics. The palm is square and strong, the fingers long and elegant. Where his fingertips would be are rough rubber pads to aid in grip. There are no simulated palm lines or fingerprints; the designed is pragmatic and streamlined, not meant to be a facsimile of a human hand but rather a powerful, sturdy tool.

“It’s very beautiful, Erik,” Charles says softly.

“It’s…certainly something,” is all Erik can manage, because that thing _isn’t his hand_.

“Erik,” Charles starts, but Erik shakes his head abruptly. He can’t hear it. Instead he allows himself to slump forward and hides his face in the angle of Charles’ neck and shoulder, that little hollow where he fits so well. Charles wraps his arms around him and holds him and says nothing.

 


	5. Strongylocentrotus purpuratus

 

Turuk-Altiv keeps his word and has them both transferred to the recovery wing of the vast Gandorian hospital the next morning. The room itself isn’t much different from Charles’ original room, but the hallway outside is quieter and less crowded, and the bed is bigger—usually reserved for larger species, Turuk-Altiv explains, but he _had_ promised them he’d try to reserve one for them, sounding pleased with himself for remembering.

Erik hardly cares about the size of the bed. Odds are he and Charles are going to continue curling around each other as tightly as possible no matter how large or small their bed is, but what he does care about is Turuk-Altiv’s other promise.

The Gandorian is less pleased, but he brings in the hoverchair. This one is small enough for a human, sleek and efficient in shape; a single, curving piece of synthetic polymer that the Gandorian explains will shift to better mold to Charles’ back to provide perfectly tailored support. There are seat and back cushions and two sturdy armrests, one with a round D-pad that Turuk-Altiv has Charles press his fingers against to calibrate the chair to his prints alone.

“You are not paralyzed, so transferring in and out of the chair will be simple,” Turuk-Altiv says, eyeing Charles critically where he sits on the edge of the bed, one hand still wrapped around the armrest of the hoverchair. “You must still take care, however, to not jostle your legs.”

“Can you show me a safe way, then?” Charles asks evenly, and only the tightening of his fingers on the armrest gives him away.

Turuk-Altiv merely nods. “Yes, of course. We will practice now. Do exactly as I say, please.”

Erik hangs back on the other side of the room while the Gandorian begins to instruct Charles on how to get in and out of the chair without disrupting the nerve regenerators on his legs. They’re new, Turuk-Altiv deeming Charles’ knee healed far along enough from surgery for his legs to support a new round of nerve healing, and strapped them onto Charles just before escorting them to the new room. They look like braces, made from a less-sturdy material; lighter weight and slightly more flexible.

Another thing different about this room is while they still have a window looking out into the hallway, they also have a window looking out of the base and into deep space. Their view isn’t much beyond bright pinpricks of light that represent stars, and Erik can’t see the planet he knows is nearby, but still. It’s a view. It’s something to concentrate on other than the dead, heavy weight he has hanging off his left arm.

Hajeena would gut him if she heard him thinking like that. His new hand is no heavier than his actual hand, but it seems that way. He keeps it open and limp at his side, his entire arm utterly motionless. Erik knows that no pain will come if he twitches a finger, bends his elbow, uses his hand like a normal person. He knows it. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

He doesn’t have to think _coward_ at himself, he can hear it clearly enough in Hajeena’s voice already.

“Whoa.”

Erik looks up sharply at the tone of Charles’ voice, still overall calm but with a slight edge of alarm. Charles is sitting in the hoverchair now, arms held up to balance himself as the chair shifts beneath him to fit his form.

“Are you experiencing pain?” Turuk-Altiv snaps immediately.

“No, no,” Charles assures him, but his gaze lifts to meet Erik’s instead, as if he knew Erik would be on alert. “I’m fine. It just startled me how it moved right away.”

“I explained that it would do so,” Turuk-Altiv says impatiently, but he’s mollified for now. “Place your fingertips on the directional pad interface. Do not press down, excess force is unnecessary. To turn, or rotate, swipe a slow circle. Yes. Very good. To move forward—”

“I think he’s got it,” Erik says, eyebrows raised as Charles does a steady circle around the room. The chair is silent as it hovers, the concealed anti-gravity turbines inaudible as they keep Charles afloat at a constant three feet off the ground.

“Thank you, Turuk-Altiv,” Charles adds, a tad more politely than Erik. “I can handle it from here.”

Turuk-Altiv narrows his eyes and lets out a long huff of breath. “Very well. There is a paging system set up in this room if you require it. Very simple. I am sure you will _get it_ immediately. It will call one of the nurses.”

“Oh,” Charles says, blinking once. He somehow looks stately where he sits, even dressed in the green patient garb of the hospital, booted feet resting delicately on the rest at the foot of the hoverchair. It’s probably because Erik hasn’t seen him out of bed for something other than using the bathroom in days. “Is this goodbye?”

“I am not leaving this base,” Turuk-Altiv says wryly, “but yes, as of tomorrow morning I will cease to be your primary care provider. Hajeena-Maral will handle the rest of Max’s follow-up work, as his new limb is her creation, and you are in capable hands with Saran-Mel. The physical therapy unit is sending one of their specialists down tomorrow afternoon and they will take you from there to get you back on your feet.”

“It feels sudden,” Charles admits, mustering up a faint and rueful smile. “You’ve been taking care of us for what feels like weeks.”

“The road to recovery is never sudden,” Turuk-Altiv corrects him, but he gives the Gandorian version of a smile back, teeth bared and yellow tongue lolling in amusement. “But I trust that you both will not put my good efforts to waste.”

Erik snorts but walks back across the room, approaching the towering alien and sticking his real hand out. “I know it’s against policy around here to say thank you, but—we’re grateful.” The words come out easier than he thought they would, a relief in itself. He may have butted heads with Turuk-Altiv several times over the past few days, but there’s no denying that every action the medic has taken has only been with their best interests in mind. He’s the reason Charles will be able to endure PT to walk again, at the very least.

Turuk-Altiv accepts Erik’s hand with his usual air of deigning to humor Erik, but gives another smile. “We accept no payment or thanks because we are only doing what is decent. Do not mistake this for naivety. We do not hesitate to cut down those who disrupt the peace.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, holding Turuk-Altiv’s gaze as they shake hands. He knows the thinly-veiled warning is meant more for him than for Charles.

“Thank you anyway, Turuk-Altiv,” Charles says sincerely. “I hope that we’ll see you again.”

“I do not,” Turuk-Altiv says flatly, but Erik thinks he knows him well enough to detect amusement there too. “That would mean you have been gravely injured again, which is impossible as long as you are here.”

“See you around,” Erik says dryly, sliding his hand back out of Turuk-Altiv’s leathery grip.

“Indeed,” Turuk-Altiv says dubiously, and glides out of the room on his tall, sturdy legs.

“I wonder if there’s anyone foolish enough to test the Gandorian’s patience here,” Charles muses idly. “From what you’ve described of this place, everyone seems to get along without much encouragement, but still. I hate to be a skeptic but it almost sounds too good to be true.”

Erik lets out a short laugh, walking over to stand next to Charles. “Turuk-Altiv treated me to a very convincing display of his claws. The Gandorians don’t patrol, but I think they make sure everyone gets the message.”

“He seems to think you’re trouble,” Charles says, eyebrows raised.

Erik lifts his right shoulder in a half shrug. “I might’ve argued with him once or twice about you.”

“Once or twice,” Charles repeats dryly.

“Maybe a couple more times,” Erik allows. He sinks down into a crouch, kneeling on the floor in front of Charles and sliding his right hand forward to tangle with Charles’ where they rest in his lap. “How’s the chair?”

“Comfortable,” Charles answers, giving Erik’s hand a small squeeze. “How do I look? It doesn’t make me look fat, does it?”

Erik snorts, before giving way to a real laugh. It’s born more out of relief than anything else—Charles is making jokes again. It feels like they’ve crossed a bridge of some kind, and Erik can only hope it’s in the right direction. “I don’t know,” he says, regarding Charles seriously, “might want to cut back on those protein shakes they’ve been force-feeding you.”

Charles makes a face. “For all their leaps and bounds with medical technology, they still can’t make a protein shake that actually tastes good. Probably a good thing, actually. Imagine the kind of power they’d have if they could.”

“Too much power,” Erik agrees. “The galaxy isn’t ready for that level of omnipotence.”

Charles smiles. It’s still nowhere near his usual blinding levels of cheer and goodwill, his face still too wan and weary, but there’s real warmth there as he looks down at Erik with unmistakable fondness, like clouds parting to reveal the sun. His gaze is clear, not shuttered and distant, and it’s almost enough to make Erik want to reach up to him reflexively with his other hand, his metal hand, but he stops himself just in time.

“So,” Erik says after a small pause, swallowing, oddly nervous even though he’s been over what he wants to say a million times in his head ever since Charles was promised a hoverchair, “it’s come to my attention that we’ve never been on an actual date.”

Charles blinks, startled by the change of direction the conversation has taken. “No,” he says slowly, “I don’t suppose we really have.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I mean, we used to have study dates all the time back at the Academy.” He gives another small, rueful smile. “Or at least I used to secretly pretend they were study dates while we frantically crammed for exams.”

“Charles,” Erik says, rolling his eyes for show to hide the fact that his heart is twinging, “I mean a real date. With dinner and a movie. Possibly ending with sex, but I don’t think either of us are up to that right now. Not that I wouldn’t want to,” he corrects quickly, and damn it he’s stumbling over his words now, “I’m always interested in sex with you, for the record. But I think we should take it slow for now.”

“Be quiet for a moment,” Charles says reverently, “I’m trying to save this moment in my mind. War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr is flustered while he kneels down in front of me and asks me out on a date. It’s just like all my fantasies from high school.”

“Shut up,” Erik mutters, “I didn’t even _know_ you in high school.” He laughs wearily despite himself. He fully deserves any kind of teasing Charles decides to dish out on the subject. “Obviously I’m not very good at this.”

“Lack of practice, perhaps?” Charles suggests dryly, but when Erik overcomes his embarrassment—and his irrational annoyance at himself for feeling this way—enough to look back up at him, Charles is still smiling. “I can’t decide if Scott and Logan would be having heart attacks or if they’d be rolling on the ground.”

Erik rolls his eyes for real this time and mutters, “I’d like to see how _their_ first date went.”

“It probably involved at least one bar fight,” Charles says serenely, “followed by several illegal activities and someone ending up hospitalized.”

Erik gives Charles a look to convey exactly how he feels about that. “Enough about them. Are you going to let me finish, or do I have to pass you a note too?”

“On real paper?” Charles asks, his eyes mock-wide. “For me?”

“No.” Erik says dismissively. When Charles gives a faint smirk, he pretends to reconsider. “Maybe for prom.”

“The Academy did not have _prom_ ,” Charles says with another thin laugh, shaking his head, “and besides, look at me. Do I look like I’ll be dancing anytime soon?”

“We could work something out,” Erik says, and it comes out far less steadier than he thought it would, voice thick and caught somewhere in his throat.

“Yeah,” Charles agrees quietly after a beat, lifting one hand to cup Erik’s cheek. His thumb strokes the soft skin just beside Erik’s eye. “We could.”

Erik looks up at him for a few moments longer before clearing his throat, pulling himself together. “So.”

“So,” Charles echoes.

“Charles Xavier,” Erik says, keeping his voice low but holding Charles’ gaze steadily. Subconsciously, endearingly, Charles is biting his lower lip and more than once Erik has seen his thighs twitch, struggling not to squirm where he sits. “Would you like to go out on a date with me?”

Charles smiles, brighter and fuller than all the ones before, and his eyes have gone soft as he leans down in the chair, his hand on Erik’s cheek sliding up to run gently through his hair. “It is all I have ever wanted,” he admits warmly, a quiet confession against Erik’s lips before they kiss, mouths sliding together softly.

Erik leans up into the kiss as best as he can from where he’s still kneeling, a novel experience as he’s usually the one leaning down. Charles has both hands in his hair now, scraping his scalp lightly with his nails as they kiss slowly, lips parted to taste each other. Erik bites down gently on Charles’ lower lip before leaning up more, pouring all of himself into a second kiss that lasts a golden, blissful eternity because there’s no rush, no reason to hurry, not when they have all the time in the universe.

I’m sorry, he tries to convey as their noses brush gently, tracing the inside of Charles’ mouth in slow, steady circles with his tongue, I’m sorry I made you wait this long for me. I love you.

And he must get through, because Erik is sure he can feel Charles’ response in the way Charles kisses him back, fingers twisted gently in his hair and holding on tightly: I know.

Charles pulls back a little, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Erik’s, breathing in deeply before letting out a quiet sigh. They don’t say anything for a few long moments, content just to be. Erik’s knees are starting to protest his position—he can’t be getting that old already, can he?—but with Charles curled over him and radiating warmth Erik hardly cares. His left arm still hangs limply at his side but he doesn’t look to see how his prosthetic hand has come to rest on the floor.

Charles sits up slowly, straightening to lean back against the cushions on his chair. His fingers slide reluctantly out of Erik’s hair, hands coming to rest neatly in his lap again. “I do have one condition, though.”

“Name it,” Erik says at once, but he can’t help but feel a small tinge of nervousness. A condition. Whatever it is, he’s sure he can meet it, but still. He’ll make things perfect for Charles.

“I’m driving,” Charles says, and demonstrates by guiding his chair backwards and pivoting smoothly to face the door.

Erik lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, ruefully amused. Charles’ indirect methods of telling him to relax work every time. “I suppose we’re safe enough this time,” he says lightly. He pushes himself back up to his feet and walks over to stand on Charles’ left, so he can drop his right hand down to tangle their fingers together again. “A hoverchair can’t do as much damage as a speeder.”

“One time, and you’re never going to let that go.”

“Never,” Erik agrees solemnly.

The hallways are less busy on this deck of the hospital, lacking the rush and crowds of the ICU level. It’s quieter, too, with no doctors rattling off orders or running to patients in danger, and the only Gandorians they pass seem to be nurses checking in on various rooms, lacking the calm urgency Erik has grown accustomed to seeing. No one paces outside any of the doorways, waiting for word on friends or family members; instead as they pass each room, soft voices speaking all ranges of dialect drift out, sometimes accompanied by laughter. Even the nurse’s station at the end of the long hallway is relaxed, two Gandorians standing tall and calm behind the counter who offer them polite nods as they pass.

“So what’d you have in mind for this date?” Charles asks as Erik lets go of his hand briefly to tap the lift button. He’s doing his best to sound casual but Erik can tell he’s excited, even though he’s more reserved and contained than he would have been, once upon a time. Still, Erik is glad Charles is looking forward to this. He needs it, after being stuck in one room for days on end. They both do.

“Well, we have a few hours before you’re due to see Saran-Mel,” Erik answers, taking Charles’ hand again, “so I figured I could take you on a tour of what I’ve explored in this place, and then for lunch I can take you to this very elegant restaurant called the community cafeteria.”

Charles snorts. “I don’t know if I’m dressed well enough for that.”

“Don’t worry,” Erik says as the elevator doors slide soundlessly open, “you’ll fit right—”

A foul stench rolls out of the open lift, so potent that Erik nearly gags and takes a reflexive step backwards, the rest of what he was going to say turning into a choked gasp as his eyes water. Two oozing, dripping Slaag stare at them unreadably, their sluglike bodies covered in their natural mucus that looks like black tar.

“You know,” Charles says with a strained voice, and Erik marvels he’s even able to talk at all given the circumstances, “this one might be a little too crowded for my chair, we’ll take the next one but thanks, chaps.”

The Slaag continue to stare at them silently even while the doors slide closed again, and as soon as they’re all the way shut Erik turns away to draw in a sharp breath of fresh air, coughing and panting. He lifts his right arm to wipe at his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear them, feeling almost dizzy.

“I wonder what they’re doing here,” Charles says, coughing once or twice and wiping his nose. “Is it even possible to injure a Slaag?”

“How were you even able to open your mouth?” Erik asks blearily, shaking his head as if it will help clear his senses. “A few seconds more of that and I think I might’ve passed out.”

“I had that one sneeze on me back on the Heartsteel,” Charles answers, grimly amused as he leans forward to tap the button again for a new lift, “this was nothing.”

“I should’ve awarded you a medal for withstanding that,” Erik mutters, facing forward again. “That merits an Outstanding Service ribbon at least.”

Charles laughs softly as a new lift arrives, this one fortunately empty. “I don’t think you would’ve had the time,” he admits as they enter the lift. Erik keys out the deck he wants and they begin to descend, sinking swiftly through the base. “Our mission was never exactly fully completed.”

“Our mission was a setup,” Erik says flatly and then exhales, breathing out the vestiges of an older, cold anger welling up inside him at the memory of what had transpired after their meeting with the Slaag Federation ship. “We shouldn’t talk about this if you don’t want it brought up.”

Charles is silent for a beat. His thumb doesn’t stop the slow, steady strokes on the back of Erik’s hand, but Erik can tell his mind has gone somewhere far away where Erik can’t reach. “It’s not exactly my favorite topic at the moment,” he says at last with forced lightness, coming back a little, “but it’s not something to outright avoid. It happened. Talking about it isn’t going to make me fall to pieces.” He sounds almost bitter by the end, though whether it’s with himself or Erik, Erik can’t tell.

Erik’s first instinct is to reassure Charles and tell him he’s the strongest person he’s ever known no matter if he falls apart or not, but then he stops, recalling Hajeena’s words. _That is a childish sort of love, a proud love. A condescending one._ And she’s right. How _can_ he expect Charles to share how he really feels while Erik himself only offers comforting words, giving no hint as to how his emotions echo Charles’ own? Charles isn’t the only one who has been emotionally compromised.

“It makes me angry, what your stepbrother did to you,” Erik says quietly instead. His metal hand clenches into a fist without him even realizing it at first; as soon as he does, he releases it and lets it fall limp again as if he’s been shocked. “I haven’t felt this angry in a long time. I will kill him,” he says bluntly, turning to face Charles again and pressing the thumb of his right hand gently against the corner of Charles’ small frown, “if we ever see him again, if the Nyrulians don’t finish him off first, I will kill him.”

Charles looks troubled, but before anything more can be said the lift comes to a smooth halt and the doors slide open. “My god,” he breathes, eyes going round with true wonder, “that is incredible.”

“First stop,” Erik says, shaking off the tension of the conversation. It’s easy to while fondness bubbles up for Charles’ amazement, quenching the dark fury for now. “The library deck.”

“You didn’t tell me they had archives like this,” Charles accuses as he guides the hoverchair forward.

Erik manages a laugh as he steps off the elevator after him. “Sort of slipped my mind for awhile,” he admits honestly, “in the face of your finally waking up and all.” Then he adds, “Turuk-Altiv probably would have murdered me anyway for telling you, because you probably would’ve argued for a hoverchair sooner just to come up here.”

“I would’ve made him wheel the damn bed,” Charles agrees, but he gives Erik a half smile over his shoulder.

Erik merely quirks a brief grin and contents himself to drifting after Charles while he slowly browses through the aisles, watching as he pauses here and there to pull datapads out and flip through the e-pages, sometimes with murmured commentary and other times in silence. It’s the most distracted Erik’s seen Charles been by something else other than whatever memories haunt him inside his head since they’ve arrived here, and Erik feels no impatience or restlessness as he watches Charles peruse, a sort of meditative calm settling over him in the quiet of the library.

He thinks back to the study sessions—study _dates_ , he corrects himself with another slow curl of warm fondness—back in their Academy days. They’d hole up in the library together for hours on end, sometimes all night long during finals week or when they were studying for the MTE, datapads and tablets spread out across whatever table they’d manage to secure. They’d take turns making runs down to the coffee shop on the ground floor of the library to buy a black coffee for Erik and flavor-of-the-month tea for Charles.

They studied together even when they had completely different exams to take, but looking back, Erik enjoyed the times when they studied for the same exam the most. Charles lived for discussions, even between just the two of them, waving his strong, square hands around in the air while talking out the finer points of the mechanics of a warp core or the variables of one of their Tactics III scenarios. From anyone else, the need to talk while Erik was trying to study would have been intolerable, but from Charles it was just...Charles.

They did everything together, and Erik is a blind fool for never seeing how much Charles meant to him even then, before they shared the bridge of a starship.

No point in berating himself over and over again for it, as he’s finding it’s so easy to do. He’s making amends for things now, or at least starting to. It’ll be a long time, though, until he stops feeling frustrated with himself for it.

“Erik?” Erik snaps out of thought at his name, though judging by Charles’ tone and expression that wasn’t the first time he’d called Erik’s name.

“Thinking,” Erik says in explanation, stepping up closer to Charles’ chair again. It’s a close fit for him between the shelves—quaint of the Gandorians to still use shelves—in the chair, but he manages.

“Evidently,” Charles acknowledges, reaching out automatically for his hand. Erik gives him his right hand. “I asked if you had anything else planned for this date, because I think I could stay here for hours unintentionally ignoring you.”

“We can stay here if you’d like,” Erik answers with a small shrug, “but I was going to show you one of the other decks that I think you might like. It’s up to you.”

“This is your show,” Charles answers with a small smile, “let’s follow your plan. I can always come back later. Though I may have to take you with me anyway,” he adds thoughtfully, “I can’t seem to reach the upper shelves and I have no idea if this chair can go up and down.”

“You’d have trouble even if you were standing,” Erik says dryly.

“Thanks for that.”

“Come on,” Erik says, jerking his head back towards the end of the aisle, “try not to make a scene when we leave without checking anything out.”

“You’re no fun at all,” Charles says calmly, but follows Erik back towards the lifts even though Erik sees him sneak a few longing glances at some of the other sections that they pass on the way. He’ll bring Charles back some other time, but for now it’ll be worth it to continue with his original plan.

“Chair still holding up?” Erik asks him as they reboard the elevator, tapping out the next level he wants on the panel.

“Well, it’s still hovering.” Charles is quiet as they ascend, and Erik doesn’t push. It’s frustrating as well as humbling to come to terms with the fact he’s in no position to demand immediate answers. Perhaps he served as a War-Prince for too long.

It makes him want to fidget, but he resolutely keeps his left arm limp and still while settling for placing his right hand on the back of Charles’ chair. “I have no idea what to talk about other than work,” he finally admits out loud, aiming for what is hopefully levity, “and seeing as we’re jobless, I’ve run out of topics entirely.”

“It seems incongruous to discuss how many procedures Scott and Logan have screwed up in the past shift, doesn’t it?” Charles agrees. He tilts his head back slightly, resting the back of his head lightly against Erik’s fingers. “We were rather married to our jobs, weren’t we?”

Erik nods slowly. He toys with Charles’ hair lightly as he thinks. “That’s what our jobs required. But now that we’re at loose ends…”

“And officially dead as far as the Empire is concerned,” Charles adds. There’s something off about his tone, and Erik can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “We can’t stay here forever, no matter how nice their library is.” He turns his head fully sideways to look up at Erik. “What are we going to do?”

_I don’t know_ is the automatic answer on the tip of Erik’s tongue, but he keeps the words back. They don’t have anywhere to go. There’s no home for them to return to, and while Erik hasn’t broached the question of returning to the Fleet, he’s not sure _he_ even wants to, never mind however Charles feels. It’s not out of cowardice—because they’ll certainly be facing a mountain of charges if they do decide to return from the dead—but it’s more of...disillusionment.

The Fleet betrayed Charles. No matter what Fury’s ultimate intentions were, he still signed the warrant marking Charles as a traitor with no proof, and the thought still makes Erik sick. Starfleet was once the one thing he could rely on and trust in, but now that’s been irrevocably changed. Erik can’t stomach the thought of obeying orders from superiors who are ready and willing to turn on him, on Charles, on _anyone_ as soon as it’s convenient.

All may be fair in war, but only if you’re on the side benefitting.

“We have to focus on getting our strength back first and foremost,” Erik says at last as the lift comes to a stop, doors sliding open. It’s a legitimate answer, but he’s still dodging the question. “One step at a time, Charles.”

Charles levels him with a look that says he knows exactly what Erik is doing, but chooses to answer, “Literally, in my case.”

“You’ll get your legs back, Charles,” Erik says, gesturing for Charles to go first off the elevator, “if the Gandorians can give me a brand new hand, they can get you walking again.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Charles assures him as he glides forward, “I— _oh_.”

Erik quirks a smile at the awe in Charles’ voice and expression, his chest tight all over again with how much he loves him. “They have several different decks devoted to biomes, but...I figured you’d like to see this one first.”

They’re standing underwater. Fish in all shapes, sizes, and colors swim past them on all sides, scales glimmering brightly in the eerie glow, some in schools that must be 100-members strong. Some are the familiar species of the Earth Empire, inches long with one tail and blunt heads, while others Erik has neither heard of nor seen ever before; fish with long, corkscrewing bodies bright pink in color that twirl vertically in the water like ribbons; fish with six fins and two oscillating tails that continuously flash blue-green-orange-red-purple in the span of seconds; fish that look like cubes, pyramids, shapes Erik doesn’t even have a name for.

“Splendid,” Charles breathes, all breathless wonder as he cranes his neck back to look up at the ceiling of the crystal clear force field that surrounds them like a bubble and keeps what must be millions of gallons of water at  bay. Somewhere high above them, in the ceiling of the vast deck, an artificial sun glows, distorted by the water as rays of light refract down all around them.

“We can walk further in,” Erik explains, jerking his head towards a clear sandy path that cuts a trench through two towering beds of coral. “The force field will follow us.”

“It must be like a membrane,” Charles says absently, gliding forward in his chair at once. Erik keeps pace beside him, leaving the elevator doors behind. The field generates a dome around them, small enough for them to fit between the coral but large enough to not feel claustrophobic. “Or otherwise we’re going to run out of oxygen very quickly.”

“Yes, it’s a membrane,” Erik replies with a nod. The first time he’d come to this deck, a Gandorian engineer had been taking her break in the aquarium and had been delighted to explain it to him when he’d finally dared to ask. “It generates the air we’re breathing by pulling the necessary molecules right out of the water and reconfiguring them. The CO2 we’re breathing out gets expelled back out into the water. See our bubbles?” They billow upwards towards the surface from the top of their dome in a long, shimmering trail.

“All in just a thin line of force field,” Charles marvels, “the amount of energy being expended just for leisure…”

Erik laughs. “Then stop looking at the field and look out beyond it and _enjoy_.”

Charles bats at him lightly, but hardly needs further encouragement.

The diversity of the coral outweighs that of the fish, growing in and on top of each other all around them in an entire reef, the universe’s wackiest forest. Some corals are tall and tubular, with gaping mouths that fish poke out of and others are broad like fans, membrane-thin and waving dreamily slow in the artificial current. Some are viciously spiked, long and jagged branches bristling, while still others look like lumps of brain, or discus like frisbees. The walls of the trench are mountainous, towering several yards high, coral built on coral and all growing in harmony.

In the shadow of the trench, shrimp that are striped red and white wave their antennae feelers at them, bulbous eyes staring out warily from all the tiny nooks and crannies, while starfish the size of Erik’s head reside further up where the light still reaches. An eel that’s bright yellow with purple zigzags running down its sides sticks its head out of its narrow cave, mouth lined with razor sharp teeth opening and closing slowly as it regards them with cold indifference before slowly withdrawing. Fish no bigger than old First Earth copper pennies dart in and out of holes in the coral, giving the impression of mice in a giant hunk of swiss cheese or perhaps children in an intricate playground.

Life is teeming around them but Erik only has eyes for Charles, who does his best to take it all in as best as he can while wearing a small but true smile, the happiest Erik has seen him in days. Here and there he points out a species that he knows, excited to recognize them amongst all the other thousands of organisms that they must be passing by from all corners of the galaxy. The trench widens out and the reef sprawls out more across the floor of the deck-turned-tank, patches of seaweeds growing here and there along the edges of the meandering sandy path.

“Come this way,” Erik says, taking Charles’ hand again, “there’s something in particular I wanted you to see.”

“Imagine all the data they collect, all the research they can do here,” Charles says, gazing out at the reef as they go. “The researchers I know on the Strontium would all cut off a leg for the chance to study here.”

“I’m not sure if the Gandorians use it for research or just for leisure,” Erik admits. “They might harvest some of the coral for medicinal purposes.”

Out here where the reef is lower and the water is deeper, the fish are bigger. They pass one fish with a head taller than Erik is, a frill of six-foot-long spines framing its face and three baleful eyes. A school of fish that look like burlap sacks swim past, propelling themselves through the water by sucking in huge mouthfuls that they let out with a loud _whoosh_. Crabs scuttle across the sand, claws held up threateningly, and long, snakelike fish poke up out of the sand like strands of noodles.

Fish that look like billboard signs swim past, their scales clear as the water around them so all their muscles and bones and organs are on display. At one point a shadow falls down across them from above and when they look up they see a reef shark cruising idly by, and all the smaller fish dart down into the coral to hide until the silent menace has passed.

Erik makes his way towards a large boulder that juts up a little higher than the rest of the coral, a school of blood red fish that look like beach balls hovering over it in a slow, dreamy spiral. He’d walked out this far the last time he’d come to this deck, and hopefully things are as he remembers.

He feels another smile break out across his face as they draw closer. “Look, Charles.”

Covering the craggy boulder like fruit on a tree are at least a hundred purple sea urchins, wandering slowly here and there across the surface of the rock as they suck up the algae growing in the sunlight. Their spines wave lazily in the water, bizarrely graceful, and it’s somehow comforting such strange-looking creatures hail from good old First Earth, from home, and not some distant corner of the galaxy.

“ _Strongylocentrotus purpuratus_ ,” Charles murmurs, gazing at the sea urchins.

Erik lets him look, standing still and quiet at his side. The Heartsteel is gone, blown to pieces by their own decision. They’re far from their friends and allies, anchored for now on an alien base under alien care, but when he’d seen the sea urchins days ago for the first time even Erik, who hadn’t been involved in the Oh-Bee labs like Charles had, felt like he’d found a little slice of home.

“You know,” Charles says eventually, dragging his eyes away from the sea urchins in order to tip a small smile up at Erik, “for a beginner, you’re pretty good at dates.”

“Just dates with you,” Erik answers lightly. “I figured that I could keep you preoccupied with a library and an aquarium so you wouldn’t notice my extraordinary lack of conversation topics.”

That prompts a laugh, soft and short but still Erik’s favorite sound in the universe. “Careful, you don’t want to be too good at it or I might make you take me on another one.”

“I think I can suffer through that,” Erik says gently. He steps around the chair so that he’s in front of Charles and leans down to kiss him, coaxing his lips to part and drinking in Charles’ soft sigh, closing his eyes to the feeling of Charles’ fingers running through his hair, Charles’ mouth warm and pliant beneath his.

“I never imagined I’d get to kiss you at the bottom of the ocean,” Charles teases when they part, the of the water reflecting in his eyes and making them an even deeper blue than usual while the sunlight filtering down lights bright sparks within his irises.

“Let’s do it again,” Erik suggests, pressing his teeth into Charles’ lower lip, and when Charles makes a small noise of agreement he’s quick to catch the rest of his mouth in another kiss. Erik braces one knee on the seat of the hover chair between Charles’ parted legs for balance and brings up his right hand to cradle the back of Charles’ head gently, kissing him like they’re drowning, drinking each other in like last gulps of air.

Charles makes another small noise but fists his fingers tightly in Erik’s hair when Erik tries to pull back in concern. Erik strokes his thumb against the curve of Charles’ skull, letting him take over and direct the kiss. Charles laps his way into Erik’s mouth, fingers loosening, and Erik loses track of time, all the universe narrowed down to the soft, wet warmth.

They part slowly, near desperate fervor cooling to chaste tenderness. Erik straightens carefully as Charles reluctantly lets him go, only just now aware of the crick in his back. He steps back from the hover chair and stretches, offering Charles a sheepish grin when his back pops audibly. They’d just made out like teenagers but maybe they _are_ getting a little too old now for their bodies to be able to keep up.

“We’re not _that_ old,” Charles says with a roll of his eyes when Erik voices this aloud, “we just have a lot to make up for.”

“And we will,” Erik promises him, reflexively reaching forward again to brush his cheek.

“I don’t want you to kill Cain,” Charles says abruptly, brow furrowed but gaze unwavering.

“He deserves worse for what he did to you,” Erik answers, his voice hardening. “Unless you’d rather be the one to—”

“No,” Charles cuts him off, shaking his head before he looks away, staring out unseeingly at the sea urchins. “No.”

Erik takes a step closer. “I refuse to allow him to go freely.”

“And I refuse to allow you to become a murderer,” Charles says. His hands clench on the armrests of his chair. “I don’t want you to stain your hands with Cain’s blood.”

“It’s not murder if it’s a battle,” Erik says coldly, “which it will be, when it comes down to it. We’re at war, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He regrets the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth. Charles draws in a sharp breath and jerks his head back towards Erik so sharply that Erik’s own neck twinges in discomfort. “I was taken prisoner in the name of war and tortured for secrets, so yes, Erik, I _remember_.”

Erik’s mouth gapes wordlessly for a few moments, like one of the fish outside their protective bubble of air. Charles averts his gaze again, breathing like he’s run a mile, and Erik feels like the lowest kind of scum. “Charles I—I’m _sorry_. I’m so sorry.” He takes another shaky step around the front of the chair so he faces Charles, dropping down to a crouch in front of him, putting Charles at the point of higher advantage. “I didn’t mean…” A vat of cold horror churns in his chest, sending chills down his arms and spine, and he shudders. “I was out of line.”

“You’re an asshole, you know?” Charles says tightly, still refusing to look at him, and Erik winces even though he knows he deserves it. Charles’ shoulders are tense, hunched in on himself where he sits as if preparing for a blow or perhaps to keep from going to pieces.

Tentatively Erik reaches for his hand, broadcasting the motion and giving Charles plenty of time to pull away if he wants. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, quiet and sincere. “Like I said before, your stepbrother makes me angry,” he confesses, the word riding the edge of a weary sigh, “so angry that I can barely think straight. But that’s no excuse.” Charles hasn’t pulled his hand away so Erik slides their fingers together slowly. “I’m sorry, Charles.”

Charles is still and silent for a few moments longer. Then he lets out a long, shuddering breath, shoulders slumping as he grips Erik’s hand back and turns his head to look down at him wearily. “That’s why I don’t want you to be so focused on killing Cain. Hate only breeds more hate.”

“I won’t forgive him.”

“And neither will I,” Charles agrees, “but I’m not going to dwell on him and focus my energies on revenge. We don’t even know if he’s still alive. With Kurt...gone,” he says with a swallow, a painful wash of emotion flickering across his face, “Cain shoulders all of the blame in failing to kill me, you, and delivering Raven to the Nyrulians. They may have already killed him in retribution.”

Erik lets out a long breath this time, letting the air out slowly from his lungs. “I’m not good at this,” he confesses, “I’m not good at…”

“Handling human emotion?” Charles asks, eyebrows raised. At least he no longer sounds brittle.

“Dealing with anger,” Erik corrects pointedly, but it’s rather moot. He knows what Logan and Scott used to say about him. They weren’t wrong.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” Charles says, “but you shouldn’t let it get to the point where it’s all you feel. Erik.” He leans forward, bending down to rest his forehead against Erik’s. “You have me this time. It’s going to be alright.”

“I have you,” Erik repeats, and closes his eyes to let himself soak in the feeling and the knowledge for awhile.

Charles cards a hand through his hair slowly and lets him be, and it isn’t long until they’re breathing in unison, slow and measured as they find that equilibrium balance once more.

“I guess I’m not so good at dates after all,” Erik says when enough time has passed, when it feels appropriate to move on.

Charles hums in agreement and sits back up, fingers sliding away. “We’ll have to practice some more.”

Erik pushes himself back up to his feet but pauses on the way to press a kiss to the corner of Charles’ mouth, their noses brushing. “We will.”

“Can we stay here for a bit longer,” Charles says after a beat of silence, gaze once again out on the purple sea urchins crawling across their version of underwater utopia.

“As long as you want,” Erik answers from beside him, and tries not to look too closely at the weary, blank expression slowly creeping into Charles’ eyes that suggests he’s billions of light years away from both the sea urchins and Erik.

X

They end up eating lunch back in their new room, Charles balancing the two small sacks of food they pick up in the cafeteria on his lap until they can transfer everything to the edge of the bed. Erik made the call after they’d first arrived at the cafeteria after leaving the aquarium deck behind, taking one look at the busy crowd and Charles’ weary, hesitant expression. Too noisy, too crowded—even Erik still gets jumpy on occasion when he eats there. Their room is much quieter.

“Need any help?” Erik asks as neutrally as he can when Charles spends a moment too long sitting in front of the bed and staring at it.

“I can do it myself,” Charles answers, just as neutral, so Erik takes that as his initiative to wander over to their window facing out into space under the guise of taking in the view and toeing off his boots.

“I wonder what part of space we’re in,” Erik says when he hears a small grunt of exertion behind him. “I think I remember Loki mentioning the Andromeda quadrant, but I don’t recognize any of these stars.”

“Who knows,” Charles answers. Erik hears the rustle of their takeaway sacks and deems it the all-clear for him to turn back around. Charles sits on the edge of the bed now, successfully transferred over from his hoverchair. “The further we are away from the Empire and the Federation, the better at this point, anyway.” He offers Erik a thin grimace.

“Scoot back, I’ll bring the food.”

Erik climbs up on the bed from the other side, but Charles snatches both sacks up and brings them with him as he pushes himself backwards until he’s fully on top of the bed, leaned back against the wall with his legs splayed out in front of him.

“Charles…” Erik hesitates. “I should probably take that side.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Erik hesitates further but Charles waits him out patiently. “So you aren’t on the side with my metal hand,” Erik answers stiffly.

“I noticed you haven’t been moving it,” Charles says quietly. Erik resists the urge to tuck his arm behind his back when Charles’ gaze flicks down briefly to his hand. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Erik says. It feels like the word is being pried out of his mouth.

Charles watches him for a moment longer. “Come here,” he says at last, in the sort of soft, compassionate tone that once would have sent Erik running for the hills, or up into the stars where nothing could reach him. Funny how he once thought that would work, only to end up finding Charles out there. Charles followed him up, but Erik didn’t realize it until it was almost too late.

Erik wants to refuse, wants to tell Charles to leave it, but then Charles quirks a small smile at him, one that makes something inside him crumble and give way. Erik climbs carefully over Charles’ legs and then crawls up the rest of the bed to slot himself in beside him, back against the wall and warm lunch in his lap. His metal hand sits limply on the bed between them.

“May I?” Charles asks.

Feeling sick with dread, Erik nods. He holds his breath and can’t stop the instinctive flinch when Charles’ fingertips make contact with the metal. Charles stops, waiting, glancing up at Erik questioningly. Erik nods again after a moment and tries not to shake as Charles gently slides his fingers forward the rest of the way to wrap around Erik’s metal ones, linking their hands together.

Erik tenses, waiting for the burst of pain but...it never comes. Charles’ hand is warm. He can register that. It doesn’t hurt when he dares to curl his fingers, new joints rotating soundlessly so that he can close his hand gently around Charles’—though not too hard because supposedly his strength is increased, his grip a little tighter. It feels like he’s wearing a glove; sensation is muted but still there.

“You’re supposed to check in with Hajeena and she’ll be cross if you tell her you haven’t used your hand,” Charles says quietly, his thumb stroking the gleaming metal surface of the back of Erik’s hand, “but now you can tell her you held my hand.”

Erik lets out a shaky breath and leans his shoulder against Charles’ in a release of tension, slumping against him which Charles allows, leaning sideways against Erik as well so that they support each other. Only after that do they dig in to eat and Charles holds his hand the entire time like a lifeline, like an anchor, and Erik finds that he doesn’t want to let go either.

Saran-Mel arrives when Erik is just starting to clear away the wrappings of their lunch, still favoring his right hand though mostly because his left is still gripping Charles’ hand. He’s reluctant to let go, arrested by the sudden irrational fear losing contact will somehow allow pain—that was never there to begin with—to come flooding back in.

“You’re alright, darling,” Charles murmurs, giving Erik’s hand a squeeze even though he can’t possibly make an indent in the metal, and then carefully slides his fingers free.

Erik pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, though that’s impossible now. No pain comes, but he still lets the hand drop back down limply to his side as he slides off the bed to his feet. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Charles doesn’t say he’s sorry for continuing to kick Erik out of the room, but Erik can see it in his expression. “Maybe now that I can get around on my own with the hoverchair, I can start going to Saran-Mel instead.”

“Whichever is most preferable to you,” Saran-Mel says calmly, giving Erik a nod. “Some patients do come to my office, others prefer to remain in their rooms.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Erik says honestly, “I don’t mind walking around. I have to go see Hajeena anyway.”

“I’d like the chance to get out too,” Charles admits, “so from now on I’ll come to you, Saran.”

“Perfectly adequate,” Saran-Mel says agreeably. He folds himself down into a chair by the bed, tablet resting on his knees.

Erik leans over to buss a kiss against Charles’ cheek. “See you later, Francis.”

“Bye,” Charles answers, faintly amused as he always is whenever Erik uses his false name.

“Shall we pick up where we left off yesterday, or is there anything new you’d like to discuss first?” Saran-Mel asks as Erik snatches up his boots.

“No, we can keep going,” Charles says slowly as Erik ducks out the door. The door slides shut behind him but just before it closes he hears Charles continue, “Are you familiar with the Taxxons?”

 


	6. That makes two of us

 

Charles tosses and turns in his sleep all night and keeps Erik up half the night cycle but Erik can’t truly bring himself to be annoyed, not when he spends the entire duration of his blearily-awake periods watching Charles with worry. At least Charles is never fully jolted into wakefulness, and settles into easier sleep near the end of the cycle.

Erik can protect him physically, but he doesn’t know how to ward off nightmares.

In the morning Charles wants to visit one of the libraries again so Erik tags along, rubbing his eyes and at one point nearly walking into the back of Charles’ hoverchair when Charles stops to let a pair of Kel Dor coming out of the elevator pass.

“Everything alright?” Charles asks him, brow furrowed. He looks tired too, but if he can remember the dreams he was having all night long he doesn’t mention them.

“Fine,” Erik says tersely, more than a little irked at himself. He used to run on only a few hours of sleep at a time and be completely unfazed—after pulling a double shift on the bridge to boot—but it’s like the past couple weeks of resting here at leisure have made him soft. Now since his body has caught up with its rest, it still wants more.

“How’s your hand,” Charles asks calmly, clearly insightful to the fact Erik’s temper isn’t directed towards him.

“Fine.”

“I see,” Charles says, and doesn’t comment further when Erik gives in and drapes down on him over the back of the hoverchair, forehead resting against the back of Charles’ head.

He leaves Charles to wander the aisles again at his leisure, staking out a small territory in one of the corners with the cushy chairs and intending to sit down and close his eyes for just a few moments. When he wakes, Charles is seated in the next chair over and flipping through a datapad, a couple more stacked on the hoverchair waiting silently nearby as a modified bookstand.

Charles glances up at him when Erik lifts his head with a small groan, working out the crick in his neck. “Morning.”

“It’s almost _midday_ ,” Erik realizes with a jolt, sitting up straighter.

“You seemed to need the extra rest,” Charles answers with a faint smile. “You could’ve gone back to the room and used the bed instead, you know.”

“No,” Erik shakes his head, “my sleeping body likes hanging out with you too much.”

Charles gives a small, rueful laugh. “Well I wouldn’t want your sleeping body to get lonely.”

“Oh shut up,” Erik mutters, stretching where he sits before lurching up to his feet, half-staggering the two steps it takes to reach Charles and squeezing himself down into the chair next to him. “Scoot over.”

Charles snorts but complies, edging over against the opposite armrest so Erik can fit down on the seat cushion. Erik arranges them to suit his needs, carefully pulling Charles half into his lap and getting an arm around him to hold on, leaning back comfortably. Charles is warm, and for a moment Erik presses his face against the side of Charles’ neck over his shoulder, breathing in, before turning his head to look down at the datapad in his hands. “What’s today’s material?”

Charles settles against him, swiping a hand across the screen to flip the page. “It’s a history of the Kaminoans,” he explains, and Erik has to smile sleepily at the shift in his tone, from normal speech to lecturer. “Their planet had a massive natural disaster thousands of years ago and it wiped out most of the population. To survive they turned to cloning themselves to increase their numbers again.”

“I’ve heard of them, I think,” Erik says. “Didn’t Dyas do a lecture on them in his Xenobiology course?”

Charles nods. “It was more like he mentioned them briefly when he was going through some of the Outer Rim races. This goes way more in-depth. It talks a lot about the ethics of their cloning and how they started playing around with their own genetics and to what results, too.”

“Perfect for you.” Erik gives him a nudge. “Didn’t I always say you were wasted as an officer? Should’ve stuck to science.”

“What would you have done without me as your Deputy?” Charles asks dryly. “The entire Heartsteel would’ve fallen apart.”

“Probably true,” Erik admits absently, far too preoccupied by slowly tracing path with his fingers across Charles’ ribs to make him squirm. He’s not sure he’ll ever be over the simple novelty of touching Charles. “I was never interested in having anyone else as my Prince anyway.”

Charles catches his hand, pressing it down flat against his body and holding it there, but Erik can see the curve of his smile. “I know. I’m fairly certain everyone knew that. No one else submitted their candidacy, if you recall. They knew it was futile.”

“Good,” Erik says frankly. He feels Charles take his hand away, leaving Erik’s hand free to roam again but he leaves it where it is, holding Charles’s body pressed back close against his own. Neither of them mention that the Heartsteel technically fell apart—was _blown_ apart—anyway, but that’s beside the point.

They spend another quiet few minutes together in the chair, Charles reabsorbed back into his text and Erik close to dozing off again. It should be ridiculous for him to be able to sleep here, out in a public place on an alien base in foreign, unknown space but his body has other plans, seemingly content with its armful of Charles and plush cushions.

“We should probably have lunch soon,” Charles says eventually, putting the tablet aside with a soft sigh. “I’ve got to be at Saran-Mel’s office in time for my appointment.”

“Isn’t someone from physical supposed to come meet you today?” Erik asks, though he makes no move to let Charles go just yet.

“Yes,” Charles shifts in Erik’s grip, “after Saran. I have to admit, I’m a little nervous. PT isn’t going to be a...walk in the park.”

“You’ll be fine,” Erik assures him, “it’s not supposed to be easy. It’ll be worth it.”

“It will be nice to walk again,” Charles agrees quietly, “and without it hurting.”

“I still don’t know what happened to you,” Erik says after a brief pause, choosing his words with the utmost care. “I’m not saying you have to tell me anything. But from the time Creed captured you up until the point where we found you on Geonosis, it’s a big blank for me. So you know.”

“I know,” Charles answers. He’s silent for another few moments. Erik wants desperately to know what thoughts are passing through that brilliant head next to his but doesn’t push, waiting. “I’ll tell you the condensed version sometime. You should probably know, anyway. I know you want to, and I’m grateful that you haven’t been trying to...drag it out of me. But I can’t go into detail, Erik,” he says, letting out a shaky sigh, “I already have with Saran-Mel and it’s just...exhausting.”

“I do want to know,” Erik says quickly, almost relieved. It’s terrifying to still not know what Charles has been through. “I would never force it out of you but whatever you’re comfortable with saying, I want to know. Please. When you feel up to it.” He swallows. “It kills me not to know. It’s selfish of me. I’m sorry.” He’s never apologized so frequently in his life, but he really only wishes he could offer Charles more.

The angle must be awkward but Charles turns his head sideways to press his face into the side of Erik’s neck, nuzzling against his skin. “No, you’re just the most neurotic starship captain I’ve ever met who likes to know everything about his crewmembers even while pretending to be a cold, aloof bastard,” he says, and the featherlight kiss his brushes against Erik’s pulsepoint takes the sting out of his words. “It’s not being selfish, Erik. It’s caring.”

Erik doesn’t answer, emotions hot and tight in his chest as he struggles silently with guilt and relief all at once. He ducks down to catch Charles’ lips in a real kiss, however soft and brief it may be while they’re still sitting in a library full of other people.

“Do you think we’d ever get kicked out?” Charles whispers, on the same train of thought as they so often are.

“Why, do you want to test it out?” Erik asks wryly. He gives Charles a suggestive squeeze just to make him give a small yelp, and laughs quietly when a couple heads turn their way.

“Stop,” Charles orders, twisting out of Erik’s grip but he can tell that Charles is trying not to laugh.

“Alright, alright,” Erik says. He lets him go, sliding out from underneath him and back up to his feet. “Let’s get lunch.”

“Let me reshelve these and we can go.” Charles scoops up the Kaminoan history and glances at the small stack of other datapads on his hoverchair. “But if you wouldn’t mind holding a couple of these for a second…”

Erik grabs all of them. “The things I do for you.”

“I’m deeply indebted,” Charles says dryly, and transfers himself over to the hoverchair. His motions are already smoother than yesterday, not even grimacing at the part where he has to put a little bit of weight on his legs.

Definitely time to start PT, Erik thinks as they wander back through the shelves to return the datapads Charles borrowed. He belatedly realizes that he’s using both hands to carry the tablets, having moved his left hand unthinkingly together with his right. He quickly drops it down to his side, empty and limp again.

By the time they make it down to one of the station’s many cafeterias the place is crowded, the brightly lit deck filled with the sound of chatter in too many dialects to name and the scrape of cutlery on diningware. The Gandorians are as industrial and orderly at serving food as any human cafeteria Erik has seen, moving people through the lines quickly and efficiently so despite the numbers, the wait isn’t long at all. Erik tips a questioning look in Charles’ direction, leaving it up to him to decide on whether they stay or not.

Charles doesn’t see Erik’s look at first, mesmerized by the bustling activity before them. Erik doesn’t blame him; he’s only been to this particular cafeteria once and he too was overwhelmed at first. The service counters hold all kinds of food imaginable, as the Gandorians have taken on responsibility of feeding hundreds of different species in the oasis they’ve created.

Closest to them, one Gandorian churns a giant vat of something green and viscous that smells like burnt shoes to Erik’s nose, but a group of Pa’lowick are gathered around hooting excitedly to each other in their language as they wait. Further down, another counter is devoted entirely to steamed foods, all kinds of plucked, naked creatures and strange vegetables hanging from strings and readily available for anyone to grab as they pass.

At the far end of the room past several more counters of strange food is a giant water tank filled with what at first appears to be scaly little spheres swimming in fast circles like a school of fish until the Gandorian attendant sticks a shock stick into the water to prod one. The spheres all suddenly grow sharp, jagged teeth, swarming at the stick and chomping viciously until the Gandorian draws the stick back out again with the dead one attached to give to the tall Bothan who waits patiently for her meal.

“Is there anything on this level that we can even digest?” Charles asks.

“Yes, if we pick carefully,” Erik replies. “We can go back to the deck we were on yesterday if this is too exotic.”

“Anything to avoid another protein shake,” Charles says fervently, gesturing ahead, “lead the way.”

“Do you want to eat here or head back to the room?” Erik asks as they make their way through the food stands. He can vaguely remember which stand he ended up getting food from the last time he was here, so hopefully he’ll recognize it again when he sees it.

“We can eat here,” Charles says after a moment’s pause, navigating his chair around a cluster of Elom that stare openly at him, blinking their black, glittery eyes. Over the top of Charles’ head Erik bares his teeth at them and flips them a swift hand signal in their language, so they turn away hurriedly. “That way I can just go straight to Saran-Mel’s office from here.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

Charles glances up at him warmly. “Alright.”

Just as he’d hoped, Erik instantly recognizes the counter he’d gotten food from last time. There are no Gandorian attendants monitoring the stand, and everything is self-serve from the tall, cylindrical canisters that line the edges of the counter, nearly reaching the ceiling. Erik grabs two of the bowls on the small cart standing nearby and offers one to Charles.

“Avoid anything yellow,” he advises, “and otherwise try not to think too hard about what it looks like.”

“I feel like we’re having frozen yogurt for lunch,” Charles says, watching Erik as he turns the spigot at the bottom of one of the canisters to allow thick, bright blue goop swirl down into one side of his bowl. “Oh, but it’s steaming a little, is it hot?”

“Not enough to burn. Come here, you’re going to want some of the blue.”

Charles hovers closer, leaning forward to serve himself. “How’s the texture?”

Erik laughs. “Didn’t I say not to worry about what it looks like?”

“Consider me worrying anyway,” Charles replies, watching with some small trepidation as the blue goop fills his bowl.

“Believe me, it’s fine. You’re lucky I’ve already gone on a crash course of this stuff. When I was here last time I took too much of the yellow and it was a mistake.”

“It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re still not telling me how any of this actually tastes,” Charles says dryly. “Is red safe?”

“Yes, but don’t take too much.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Alright, fine. I’ll give you the show you seem to want of my facial expressions as I taste this stuff.”

Erik grins at him. “Am I that transparent?”

Charles sighs.

They fill up their bowls, adding lime green, a dark purple, and a little bit of orange to the blue. It all smells the same, almost similar to corn on the cob, oddly enough, but at least Erik already knows what it tastes like. He’s enjoying how Charles keeps glancing down at the bowl in his lap warily when he thinks Erik isn’t looking, skeptical but holding his tongue.

Erik snags them each what passes as a spoon here, or a thin utensil that looks like a cylinder that’s been sliced lengthwise in half, about twice as long as a regular spoon with no differentiating ends. He leads Charles over to a table that’s empty, yanking one of the chairs out of the way so Charles can hover right up to the tabletop and then drops down in the remaining chair across from him.

“You first,” Charles says after they’ve both put their bowls down in front of themselves.

“What, still don’t trust me?”

“You seem entirely too amused by this, so no, I don’t.”

Erik laughs. “Alright, fine. Follow my lead.” He carefully spoons up a bit of the blue goo, lifting it to his mouth and making a show of slurping it up and swallowing. He raises his eyebrows at Charles expectantly.

Charles mimics him, scooping up a tiny bite of the blue goo in his bowl though he hesitates a second longer than Erik did before slurping it in. Erik laughs again as he watches Charles’ face go from wary to confused to outright indignant as he swallows.

“It tastes like chicken,” Charles says, eyes narrowed accusingly.

Erik smirks at him, eating another spoonful. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know," Charles huffs, put upon, "you had me going that it was going to be something that was more...strange. Exotic. Stop laughing."

"Alright, alright," Erik concedes, holding up his hands. "I couldn't help it. You were so suspicious."

"With good reason," Charles mutters, but even when he ducks his head Erik can still see that he's trying not to smile, "since I obviously can't trust you."

"You wound me, Charles."

Charles rolls his eyes. "You'll survive. Now tell me what the rest of these taste like."

"You've basically got a standard cafeteria meal in front of you," Erik explains, relenting. "The blue is chicken, the purple tastes similar to some kind of potato. The orange is like a kind of...string bean, I suppose, but it's also got an aftertaste that isn't _bad_ , exactly, just different. The lime green tastes like pizza."

"Pizza," Charles repeats, amazed. "And the red?"

"Dessert."

Charles tries a tiny bite cautiously. "It tastes like birthday cake."

Erik grins. "You can go back for seconds if you finish your veggies."

"Oh shut _up_."

They make quick work of the meal after that, content in a companionable silence while they eat. At the next table over a group of Generation 1995 are arguing loudly, waving their spindly arms frantically. Erik watches Charles watching the rest of the room, taking in all the different alien species the Gandorians are harboring without bias—and this only a small sample of all the refugees living in the base. There are races here that Erik knows hate each other in other parts of the galaxy, like the table of Jallians eyeing the passing pair of Inner 333’s, whose planets are at war back in their home system, but no one acts on the suppressed aggression. Peace reigns, just as the Gandorians decree.

It makes Erik wonder what really would happen to someone who dares disrupt the peace here. In the few weeks he's been here he still has yet to see anyone try, and it isn't as if the Gandorians are constantly patrolling for offenders. He hasn't heard any lingering rumors of the last person who tried starting a fight, and what might have happened to them as a consequence. It seems unlikely, too, that every single person who has come to this base is nonviolent and content to obey the Gandorians. There have to have been incidents at some point. Just the other day Erik passed a Howler in one of the halls, and Howlers are among the most violent sentient races in the galaxy, their entire genetic makeup designed for killing for the fun of it. He hasn't heard any ear-shattering roars yet, but surely the request of the Gandorians isn't enough to suppress primal instinct?

Regardless, the Gandorians are well respected in all corners of the galaxy. Perhaps they're content to leave it up to everyone's imagination as to what happens to those who commit infractions on their law. Despite the lack of rumors Erik himself is still no keener on giving it a try.

"I'm not sure the texture agrees with me," Charles says, drawing Erik back out of his thoughts as he places his utensil down flat across the top of his bowl, still only half-empty, "but I _am_ full."

"It's hard to reconcile familiar tastes with unfamiliar form," Erik agrees. He scoops up the last few bites of his own meal, finishing it off. "It kind of reminds me of mashed potatoes. Not bad, though. We could’ve tried those roasted Gorgs they’ve got over there.”

Charles makes a face. “No, thank you.”

They stack their dirty dishes on a cart being pushed through the rows of tables by a squat droid, who beeps once at them in thanks. Erik feels full too; the goop must be like rice, and expand within their stomachs. They have just enough time to get Charles to his appointment with Saran-Mel so they make their way out of the cafeteria and back to the lifts that will take them up to the Gandorian version of a psychology deck. He doesn’t have an appointment scheduled with Hajeena today, but he can probably go annoy her for the sake of it while he waits for Charles’ session to end.

Except then she’ll probably demand to know how his progress is going with using his hand. Aside from yesterday when he’d held Charles’ hand, he hasn’t used it at all today beyond when he’d accidentally lifted the datapads in the library with it.

Knowing Hajeena, she’ll probably threaten to rip the hand off of him by the root at this rate and be serious about it.

Erik is so wrapped up in his thoughts, walking alongside Charles’ hoverchair as they approach the lift doors, he isn’t entirely paying attention when one of the sets of doors slide open and the current occupants step out until Charles goes rigid beside him.

“Erik,” he says, voice edged with a desperate kind of fear and physically twisting away where he sits in his hoverchair, “ _Erik_ —”

Erik’s gaze snaps up in alarm and he finds himself face-to-face with six Nyrulians.

His brain stops.

Behind him Charles makes a small, panicked sound, and Erik’s brain kicks back into overdrive. He throws himself between Charles and the Nyrulians, snarling out an obscenity and glaring at them with all the venom and hatred he can muster. _They’ve found us, they’ve found us_ repeats on a loop over and over again in his mind, but he’ll never let them take Charles again. He’ll kill them all.

The Nyrulians do nothing, staring at him blankly. No blasters are drawn, no preparations to attack are made. Other people coming from the cafeteria and out of other elevators are stopped now too, watching the show with avid curiosity.

And suddenly, Erik’s memory catches up with the rest of his brain.

 _It will be tempting to start trouble with Nyrulian refugees. Do not._ One of the first things Turuk-Altiv had ever said to him comes crashing back to him, and even so he remains frozen in place for an extended, suspended moment in time, nerves still buzzing as he stares at his hated—and in this case, completely harmless—enemies.

Refugees. Just like him and Charles.

Dismissing the Nyrulians for now, Erik whirls around to refocus on Charles. Charles’ hands grip the armrests of the hoverchair, pushing himself as far back against the seat as he can, face pale and eyes wide and empty with terror. His breathing is coming in short, aborted gasps and Erik doesn’t need to be a psychologist to instantly understand that Charles isn’t even here—not in a mental sense, his mind thrown into some kind of flashback triggered by pure, overwhelming panic.

"Charles," he says, low but urgent, hoping the tone breaks through the fog of whatever has temporarily taken over him. "Charles, it's okay. They're refugees, just like us. They're not here to hurt us. They're not here to hurt you."

Charles shakes his head, gasping for breath. It breaks Erik's heart, to see him like this, lost and terrified in equal measures, out where everyone else can see.

"Back off," he snarls to the onlookers, instinctively moving even closer to Charles to shield him. Then he hesitates—what if it's too crowding? "Charles," he repeats, tone gentler, closer to pleading, and he'll beg too if that's what it takes, "Charles, you’re okay.” He tries not to let his voice crack. “I'm here. You're safe."

A pair of Gandorians arrive, no doubt drawn by the congestion in the hall. They size up the situation with clinical gazes and start clearing most of the people away, ushering them back towards the cafeteria or into unoccupied elevators. The hair on the back of Erik's neck prickles and he whirls back around in time to see one of the Nyrulians taking a step towards him.

"Stay away from him," he hisses, hackles back up again at once. The words pour out of his mouth unbidden, running more on autopilot than with any form of conscious thought. "Don't you see you've hurt him? Hasn't your kind done _enough?_ "

"Peace, little brothers," one of the Gandorians says before the Nyrulian can respond, stepping between them calmly. "No one here means anyone harm."

"They've already done more than enough harm," Erik spits out harshly, while all six of the Nyrulians blink back at him. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice warns him that he's over the line, that he knows these Nyrulians aren't responsible for what he and Charles have been through, but the larger part of him is beyond reason. Not when Charles is behind him, imploding with a panic attack. Erik doesn't care who these Nyrulians are. He hates them. "Get them away from us. _Now_."

"You will keep the peace," the Gandorian warns, lips beginning to draw back over sharp canine teeth. "Calm yourself now, little brother, or more drastic measures will be taken."

Erik growls in frustration, turning away from all of them and back to Charles again. Charles reaches for him blindly, face bloodless and white as a sheet, so Erik goes to him, drawing Charles all the way up out of the hoverchair and into his arms. He wraps himself around Charles as tightly as he can, holding onto him to keep him from collapsing back down and to surround him, to make him feel safe again. Anything to banish the fear from his eyes. Charles is shaking, his breath still coming too fast and uneven, heartbeat fluttering against Erik's chest.

He's terrified out of his _mind_. Erik's never thought that the term could ever be applied to anyone besides young children let alone to someone like Charles, who has always been a staunch believer in mind over matter. It scares _him_ to see Charles like this, because he doesn’t know what he can do. He doesn’t know how he can help. He feels angry and helpless all at once and it’s enough to make him want to explode, but all he can do is keep holding onto Charles.

"I've got you," Erik repeats over and over again, and he will for as long as it takes, "I've got you, Charles."

It's his fault. Turuk-Altiv had specifically mentioned the base was home to Nyrulian refugees however many weeks ago to prevent a situation like this from happening, but Erik had completely forgotten. He hasn't seen a single Nyrulian once until now. But he should have remembered, should have told Charles; should've warned him, so Charles would be prepared and not taken completely off guard by six of them stepping off an elevator right in front of him, like something probably straight out of his nightmares.

Erik doesn't allow himself to dwell on it. He focuses on Charles, rubbing his hand slowly up and down Charles' back as his shaking gradually lessens, murmuring any kind of comforting words that come to mind. Charles holds onto him tightly, face buried in the crook of Erik's neck and shoulder and doesn't say a word, breathing evening out little by little. Erik can feel that his shirt is damp where Charles presses his face, and tries to pretend that his own eyes aren’t hot and prickling with wetness too out of empathy.

 _Empathy._ If Logan and Scott could see their robotic commander now.

The corridor is completely empty when Erik becomes aware of their surroundings again. Even the Nyrulians are gone, disappeared back into the elevator they came from. Only one of the Gandorians remains, though whether he's there to guard them or _for_ them Erik can't tell, standing a few paces away with his back respectfully turned away.

“I thought—” Charles chokes out, the words riding a ragged sob that hits Erik’s chest like a knife between ribs, “god, Erik, I thought—” He can’t finish, a long shudder wracking his body.

“So did I,” Erik murmurs, his voice hoarse. “I thought they’d tracked us down.” Against all logic, the words are accompanied by a sharp burst of fear that caves downwards in his chest, like he’s been pushed off a building and left to plunge to his death. “But they’re not—we’re safe, Charles. They’re refugees here just like we are. I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry.”

Charles doesn’t answer but doesn’t draw away either, both hands fisted tightly in the front of Erik’s shirt. Erik doesn’t know what else he can do or say. It’s killing him.

The elevator doors directly behind them hiss open and he feels Charles flinch at the sound. Erik stiffens, shooting a baleful glance over his shoulder at the newcomer only to immediately relax in relief as Saran-Mel steps out.

“Saran-Mel,” Erik greets him, mostly for Charles’ benefit.

“Hello, little brothers,” Saran-Mel answers, coming to a graceful halt a few feet away. Erik isn’t sure to be grateful or uneasy about how he too keeps his distance. “I understand there was an incident.”

“We ran into the Nyrulians,” Erik says stiffly. Charles is starting to slip in his grasp so he adjusts his hold. Charles doesn’t fight him.

“Disorientating for both of you, I imagine.” Saran-Mel observes. He doesn’t sound accusing or threatening like the other two Gandorians, which is a minor improvement. “Surely Turuk-Altiv informed you that we house a small number of Nyrulian refugees on this base.”

“He did,” Erik bites out despite how Saran-Mel sounds more critical of Turuk-Altiv than him. “It was one of the first things he told me about the base. I forgot.”

“An unfortunate mistake,” Saran-Mel answers. His gentle tone somehow makes it worse. “I regret you came into contact with our Nyrulian brothers and sisters under these circumstances.”

“I _regret_ coming into contact with Nyrulians under any circumstances,” Erik snaps angrily, but Saran-Mel holds up a hand.

“Peace, little brother. You know as well as I do that these Nyrulians meant no harm. The Nyrulian Federation has committed many crimes against the Earth Empire as well as against you personally, but you cannot hold an innocent few accountable.”

Erik grits his teeth. He knows this. And yet. “I can hold them accountable for this,” he says bitterly, jerking his chin to indicate himself and Charles.

“Max.” Saran-Mel is reproachful now, and he has to have picked the sentiment up off of Charles somehow because even his expression is eerily similar.

“It’s alright,” Charles murmurs. One of his hands has found its way to the back of Erik’s neck, fingernails scraping lightly at the short hairs at his nape. It feels good. “They didn’t know.”

Erik doesn’t answer either of them. It’s his turn to hide his face, dropping his forehead down on Charles’ shoulder and closing his eyes. His body still thrums with unspent tension, torn between fight or flight. He hates that he can’t act on either, that Saran-Mel and the other Gandorian are here witnessing how _weak_ he is, how useless he is to Charles.

“It’s alright,” Charles repeats as they cling to one another, the only thing that either of them has left, “we’re okay.”

Erik isn’t sure how long they stay like that. Maybe it’s only another minute. Maybe it’s another hour. Eventually, though, they come to a silent, mutual agreement that it’s okay to let go, Charles pulling back slightly, tentative, while at the same time Erik bends his knees to help him slide back down into the hoverchair without hurting his legs.

“Are you okay?” Erik asks him, still bent over him and the chair as if to continue sheltering Charles. He rests his right hand on one of the armrests of the chair for balance.

Charles’ face is still pale, eyes red-rimmed. He looks wrung out and exhausted which is about how Erik feels. “No.” He covers Erik’s hand with one of his own, clammy and still shaking, a fine tremor that wasn’t noticeable until they touched again.

Erik swipes his thumb gently across Charles’ skin. “What do you want to do?” he asks, at a loss for anything else. “Anything you want to do.”

Charles draws in a shaky breath, releasing it slowly. “I should apologize to the Nyrulians,” he says wearily, chagrinned, “they probably think we’re the worst kind of xenophobes. But right now…” He trails off uncertainly, hesitant. “I think about seeing them again and I can hardly breathe,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I will convey your apologies to the Nyrulians in your stead for now,” Saran-Mel offers, stepping closer now that they’re no longer wrapped up in their world of two. “You are still deeply unsettled and it would do no good to continue pushing yourself.”

Charles’ mouth downturns in a frown, shamefaced. “I...I don’t like that I’m like this,” he says at last, voice low. “I shouldn’t...I don’t know _why_.”

Erik holds his tongue on the prospect of apologizing to the Nyrulians but at Charles’ last words he can’t remain silent any longer. “It’s not your fault,” he says, turning his hand over to catch Charles’ and squeeze. “It’s not your fault you reacted like that.”

“That’s no excuse,” Charles whispers. “I don’t want to be afraid of people who have done nothing wrong.”

“You didn’t know,” Erik insists. He can’t bear to see Charles looking at him like this, even if he has nothing to do with the cause—or _doesn’t_ he? “You saw Nyrulians and perceived them as a threat and why shouldn’t you? They’ve hurt you. They’ve done terrible things to you.”

Charles’ eyes are wide. “Erik…”

“We’ll get through this,” Erik promises him, “it’s not going to be all at once. It’s not going to be perfect. I’m afraid too,” he admits, as if Charles didn’t already know. As if Charles can’t see him shaking too. “I saw them come out of the elevator and my first thought was that they’d come to take you away again.”

“Erik,” Charles repeats, softer this time.

“We’ll get better,” Erik plows on, “but you can’t start blaming yourself for what they’ve done.”

“I won’t,” Charles whispers, gaze wet again, but clears his throat and repeats in a louder, steadier voice, “I won’t. But you can’t hold a grudge, either. At least not against the Nyrulians living here. It’s not their fault either.”

Erik looks away. “I can forgive them for this.”

“Fair enough,” Charles says softly. He doesn’t push, and Erik is relieved. Some things are unforgivable. He tips his head forward, resting his forehead against Charles’ and taking a deep breath, in and out. Charles breathes with him, soft and quiet.

“Are you both up to relocating presently?” Saran-Mel says after another few moments of silence. He doesn’t seem to be bothered either way, though it occurs to Erik they’re holding up an entire hallway.

Even so, Erik still almost doesn’t want to move. Almost. He takes another deep breath before rocking back on his heels. “Charles?”

Charles’ expression twists, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face. Charles is not yet entirely stable, Erik thinks, but doesn’t want it to show.

“Back to the room?” Charles asks tentatively, gaze flickering to Saran-Mel.

Saran-Mel inclines his head. “We may forgo your appointment in light of today’s events if you wish,” he says calmly, “or we can hold our session in your quarters again today as well.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, apologetic where Erik thinks he shouldn’t be, “I’m really...I honestly just feel like lying down.” He bites his lower lip, an old nervous tick. “I’m supposed to start PT today…”

“I will speak with your trainer,” Saran-Mel assures him, stepping over to press the lift button. “I am sure she will have no qualms about rescheduling. Is tomorrow morning agreeable?”

Charles tenses when the doors slide open. “Tomorrow morning is fine,” he says wearily, passing a hand over his eyes when the elevator is revealed to be empty. “Thank you, Saran.”

“I will be in communication,” Saran-Mel answers, deftly sidestepping gratitude as is the Gandorian habit. “Please rest well.”

Erik ushers Charles into the elevator and feels immediately better once the doors have slid shut again. It’d been too open, in the hallway. The sooner they’re back in their room together, the better. Charles doesn’t say anything for the duration of the ride back up to the recovery deck, head tipped back against the backrest of his seat with his eyes closed, but Erik knows he feels the same.

It’s easier to feel safe, with your back against a wall, or in this case, enclosed in a room with only one entry.

He’ll be fine, Erik tells himself, even though his own nerves have yet to relax, muscles tight and on edge, Charles will be fine. Both of them are shaken, but the feeling will pass.

It has to.

X

Charles wakes up screaming that night, jolting Erik out of uneasy dreams of his own. It takes him a few wild, disorientated moments to even realize what’s happening, head still muddled with sleep and unable to make out anything in the dark room other than frantically thrashing limbs until his eyes adjust.

“Lights,” Erik snaps, voice hoarse, sitting up and squinting blearily down through the sudden bright light at Charles, fighting to untangle himself from the sheets with something close to panicked desperation. “Charles, Charles,” Erik says shakily once he finds his voice, yanking the covers back off him and freeing him.

His adrenaline is pumping, nerves on edge and heart pounding. It takes Charles several more long seconds before Erik thinks he’s even fully awake, sweaty and panting where he lies staring up at Erik without really seeing him at first. Erik remains frozen in place, hovering over him, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat because he doesn’t know what to do.

The door to the room slides open and one of the Gandorian orderlies pokes her head in. “Is everything well with you, little brothers?”

“We’re fine,” Erik manages to respond, unable to lift his gaze from Charles who is slowly becoming more aware and stares up at Erik like a lifeline now, “sorry about the noise. Nightmare.”

“No harm done,” she assures them smoothly, “if you require anything please notify us with the call button.” A moment later the door slides shut again behind her.

“Charles,” Erik says carefully after a moment of silence. He can still hear the sound of Charles’ scream echoing in his ears, terror of his own invoked by the sound still fizzing like static through his brain.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, wan and exhausted, “I’m sorry—”

“No,” Erik interrupts him quickly, “don’t, it’s alright.”

Charles blinks up at him, and a moment later lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes where wetness has gathered, fingers visibly shaking. Erik opens his mouth again to say something, but his mind is blank. It feels like they’ve been here for ages now and he still doesn’t know what to do, what to say, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to make this better, how he’s supposed to help Charles be alright.

“Is there any water,” Charles says dully after a moment, hand still covering his eyes.

“Yes,” Erik says, fumbling awkwardly with the sheets to get his own legs untangled from the mess they’ve made of the covers, sliding down off the side of the bed and half-staggering over to the small side table where a pitcher and two cups sit waiting. He uses his real hand to pour them each a cup, and then hesitates for a long moment before gingerly picking up both the cups, one in each hand, and carries them carefully back to bed.

Charles pushes himself up at Erik’s approach, sitting up against the backboard and accepting the cup Erik offers him with murmured thanks and draining the entire thing in one long drink while Erik watches, standing by the side of the bed and holding his own cup in his metal hand as if it’s liable to explode at any moment.

“Charles…”

Charles lowers the empty cup slowly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His face is pale, and he won’t quite look at Erik. “I’m fine. It was just a dream.”

“Charles,” Erik repeats weakly, “you were _screaming_.”

“Yes, well,” Charles says, trying to sound light and unaffected, but Erik hears the tremor he can’t quite keep out of his voice, “it wasn’t a nice dream.”

Dimly Erik is aware of the water in his cup splashing down onto his foot when he squeezes the flimsy material with his metal hand without meaning to, but the majority of his focus remains on Charles. He lets the crumpled cup drop to the floor and hoists himself back onto the bed, sliding in next to Charles and tugging him over into his lap, wrapping both arms around him as Charles settles willingly, curling into Erik and allowing himself to be held.

He’s trembling, ever so slightly, and Erik wants to tear something apart in the kind of ugly, destructive behavior he used to look down on and think himself better than. _Always such rigid, tight control,_ his Academy instructors would compliment him in reviews and recommendation references. Erik wonders what the aftermath would look like if he lost that iron control. He settles for holding onto Charles, smoothing his real hand up and down Charles’ back slowly. With the way Charles shakes, he probably won’t notice Erik is too.

“They made me see you,” Charles says into the silence, just when Erik opens his mouth to speak, “over and over again, when they had me on Geonosis. You would come to rescue me.”

“I did come rescue you,” Erik says, for lack of anything better. His heart is in his throat.

“You did,” Charles agrees, far away and distant, the words a soft, dying sigh. “But you came a hundred times before that as a vision, because of the toxic gas. Only...it was so real. You were so real. I thought you were dead, because of Creed, but for a few moments every time they’d make me truly believe you were alive again and had come for me. Then they would crush that hope over and over again. It was so _real_.”

“This is real, Charles,” Erik says, using every ounce of his willpower to remain calm. Charles is still reeling from the nightmare, he tells himself, it’s natural for him to be disorientated. “I’m real, Charles.”

“I know you are,” Charles assures him quietly. “I knew you were real the moment you touched me, back in that cell.”

Erik swallows. “Did they not let me touch you in the...visions?”

Charles pulls back slightly so that he can look up at Erik with exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. “You would just be reaching for me and they would appear in the doorway and slaughter you right in front of me every time.”

At first Erik doesn’t know how to react. His traitorous brain jumps straight to trying to envision watching Charles die, over and over again in front of his eyes, and the thought alone makes him sick, cold sweat breaking out across his back and he suddenly can’t draw in enough air, faint and out of breath. He _can’t_ imagine watching Charles die, everything in him violently rejecting even the idea.

“I’m sorry,” he gets out at last, the words thick and heavy in his throat, from where his heart has cracked and splintered to pieces to make way, “I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough, I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner, I’m sorry I let them take you in the first place. I am so, so sorry.”

“You wanted to know,” Charles reminds him dully, leaning in close again so his face is hidden where he presses into Erik’s chest.

“I did,” Erik says, and swallows the acidic taste of bile in his throat, pushing back the urge to be physically sick over the side of the bed. It’s amazing Charles isn’t insane, driven mad by what the Nyrulians have done to him. Erik clutches onto him more tightly, seeking out the maximum possible surface area of skin-to-skin touch, burying his nose in Charles’ hair. Anything to reassure Charles he’s here, he’s still alive, they’re together in reality.

Eventually the night cycle is going to wind down and it’ll be time to start the hours that pass as daytime here on the station but they stay as they are, lights on full and huddled together at the head of the bed, sitting up and clinging to each other. Charles’ shaking gradually dies down but Erik knows he’s still awake, his breathing too regular and the featherlight brush of his eyelashes against Erik’s throat every time he blinks giving him away. Erik is exhausted, weariness weighing down on him like the gravity of a star.

He couldn’t sleep, even if he tried.

“When they stepped out of the elevator earlier,” Charles murmurs, “for a moment I thought that maybe this was one long dream and they’d finally come to kill you again.”

Erik feels his eyes burn, hot and prickling with water that he doesn’t allow to fall. “This is real, Charles,” he repeats, will repeat a thousand more times if that’s what it’ll take, “you’re safe. We’re both safe.”

“It was just for a moment,” Charles whispers, “I know we are.” He clears his throat and sniffs, drawing in a shaky breath and shifting slightly in Erik’s hold. Erik feels Charles fold both hands around his metal hand, tracing idle patterns across the gleaming surface and Erik tries not to shiver. “It’s funny,” he continues, voice a little louder, “it was just like all the times before. I didn’t do anything to try and stop them from killing you, I just sat there and watched.”

“Don’t,” Erik says quietly. “Don’t do that to yourself.” His real hand traces out the ridge of Charles’ spine, more prominent than it should be but comfortingly solid. “Don’t hold yourself accountable for what you did or didn’t do in hallucinations they made you have.”

Charles doesn’t answer and Erik doesn’t need him to. If Erik were a better man, perhaps, he’d feel appropriately guilty it’s him who Charles has chosen to attach himself to, to love seemingly without reserve and above all else—because it hasn’t escaped Erik, out of all the things the Nyrulians could have conjured up out of Charles’ mind to torture him with, it was Erik’s death that terrified Charles the most—but the fact remains Erik isn’t. He does not deserve Charles, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Logan and Scott reminds him, but Erik already knows. He doesn’t. But he can become someone who does.

Looking down over the top of Charles’ head Erik can see his metal hand, still resting in Charles’ grip. Charles will have his work cut out for him when he starts PT tomorrow to regain the full use of his legs, but Erik has work of his own to do. He’d thought they’d been making good progress so far, but now he realizes how much of the way there’s still to go.

“I hate this,” Charles says after another stretch of silence has passed, the quiet venom in his voice carefully controlled but no less vehement. It’s so unlike Charles to _hate_ , and Erik is thrown. But Charles doesn’t say anything else or elaborate, letting out a long stream of air in a sigh before going silent again.

At first Erik thinks he’ll let the silence go on again as it is, once again nothing coming to mind he could possibly say. But not much time has passed before the words come on their own, and it takes until he’s actually speaking them aloud for Erik to realize he’s been thinking this all along, a quiet revelation that took Charles saying it first.

“That makes two of us.”

 


	7. Do not go gentle into that good night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last full chapter! We pick up the pace and things speed up a little here for our final act - all of course in the interest of getting the boys to exactly where they need to be. Next chapter will be the epilogue, which we promise is worth the wait. ;)

 

The lights overhead in the corridor feel too bright even after spending the rest of the night cycle with all the lights in their room on, and Erik has to blink several times to clear his fuzzy vision as they approach the row of elevators at the end of the hall. He’d dozed lightly on and off, but his body is acting like he hasn’t gotten a single wink of sleep.

Charles, Erik knows, didn’t go back to sleep at all but he shows no sign of it. He sits straight-backed and expressionless in the hoverchair while they wait for a lift to arrive, one hand wrapped firmly around Erik’s while the other rests limply across one thigh. If he’s nervous or worried about finally beginning PT, Erik couldn’t begin to guess.

There’s something different between them now. Neither of them has said a single word since they finally roused themselves from bed to take turns in the small bathroom attached to their room before it was time to leave, but the silence isn’t charged or uncertain. For the first time in a long time, Erik thinks they might finally be on the same page.

“I’m going to have more nightmares,” Charles says once the elevator has started to descend. Saran-Mel had sent a message along to Charles informing him where he was to report to for PT: a specially reserved gym down in the bowels of the base. Since they’re headed down rather than ascending up into the hospital or living quarters proper, they’re the only two inside the lift. Even so, Charles stares straight ahead at the doors, still and unblinking.

Looking up from where he’d been staring at his metal hand, Erik nods once. “Yes.”

“I don’t know if I will ever stop.”

Carefully Erik slides his hand out of Charles’ grip and reaches up to tilt Charles’ head by the chin towards him. Once Charles is looking up at him, Erik leans down and kisses him, gentle and chaste at first before Charles makes a small sound and presses up into the kiss, coaxing Erik’s lips apart and deepening it while Erik allows him to take over. He goes as directed when Charles’ hands come up to rest on either side of his face, pulling him down to make the angle easier on Charles’ neck.

“You once told me you’d be for me whatever I needed you to,” Erik says when they part for air, the taste of Charles still tingling on his lips, minty fresh from toothpaste. The elevator is finally beginning to slow, nearly arrived at the lower decks. “You know the same goes for you. Whatever you need.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees, without a single trace of doubt, some of the fog cleared from his eyes. They’ve always been each other’s constant, ever since they first met, but sometimes it still needs to be said aloud. He kisses Erik again, and this time it stays brief and chaste, before he lets go of Erik’s face so Erik can straighten. When the elevator doors slide open they exit together, side-by-side and hand-in-hand.

The Heartsteel had an entire deck allotted to a multi-function gymnasium and leisure time complex for the crew to use on downtime while not on shift, and Erik estimates that deck alone could fit at least five times over inside this one, the gargantuan space all the more intimidating for how open and empty it is. He and Charles stop on the edge of the room, only several paces out from the doors to the lift and it’s strange, Erik thinks, how disorientating such total emptiness in such an enormous space can be, especially for someone who is supposed to be an expert on interstellar travel. It must be the knowledge that however large this single room is, there are still limits on how far the walls extend. They’re still closed in, with a ceiling high above their heads, whereas space had been far easier to imagine as infinite.

Two figures stand waiting for them several yards away, and the most surprising thing isn’t how vibrant they are in comparison to the nondescript grey paneling of the walls and floor—they aren’t Gandorians. They’re humans.

Erik tenses.

“This isn’t a gym.” Charles’ voice is deceptively mild, raised enough to echo gently off the walls. His grip on Erik’s hand has tightened ever so slightly, and Erik takes it to mean Charles’ thoughts are exactly the same as his: aside from Wade and Loki, no one human should know they’re alive.

Either they’ve been betrayed, or discovered.

“It will be,” comes the equally casual response from the woman. She and the man don’t move, or make any attempt to come closer to where Charles and Erik have stopped, their postures relaxed and their arms loose at their sides. Erik gets the vague impression they’re both trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible, even though he can pinpoint at least six hidden weapons on her and four on him.

Stronger is the realization he and Charles are completely, utterly defenseless. Neither of them have weapons—on them, nor even hidden back in their room. Neither of them can remotely be able to physically hold their own in a fight. They’re trapped.

“We know who you are,” the woman says, shifting on the balls of her feet, “but we’re not here to—”

“Kill us?” Charles interrupts, deathly calm. Erik’s glad Charles is able to speak, his own throat feels like it’s closing up with panic, and he tries to control himself. He’s been specifically _trained_ to be cool under pressure, goddamn it. “Or drag us back to the Nyrulians, or the Empire?”

“I understand your fear of being taken back to the Nyrulians, but the Empire too?” She cocks her head, assessing them, even though she doesn’t sound surprised. Beside her, her companion still doesn’t speak, his eyes watchful and inscrutable. “But no. We’re here to make sure your cover stays intact, not drag you back out into the light.” She smiles, cold and brief. “Nor are we here to kill you.”

There’s no possible way her words are to be trusted at face value, but despite his still-racing pulse Erik is hit with a bolt of clarity. “I know your faces. You’re both on the Fleet’s blacklist. You’re bounty hunters.”

Her smile is amused this time, and she folds her arms. “Natasha Romanoff.” She jerks her head to her companion, who gives a little bow. “Clint Barton. You’ve seen our faces on the blacklist, yes.”

“The Black Widow and Hawkeye,” Charles says, and gives a faint smile of his own when she raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I know your spots on the blacklist are just one more cover for both of you. You’re Fury’s spies. Fury sent you here.”

“Fury must be getting old, if things like that are getting around,” Barton says, though he doesn’t sound particularly bothered. “Only two out of three, though, Xavier.”

“Your escape from the Vulpina several years ago gave Fury the excuse to throw one of my friends under the bus,” Charles says. “I’ve been interested in your names ever since. My own interest led me to discover Fury’s interest in you, with some digging.”

Erik can remember the report detailing the fiasco that went down on the Vulpina. It’d marked the end of Rogers’ once-promising career. He hadn’t known Charles had been friends with Rogers, though, or otherwise maybe he would’ve felt something aside from disinterested schadenfreude; he can remember well the way he’d coldly calculated how long Fury would be preoccupied with raking Rogers across the coals so Erik could slide a few things under the proverbial rug on Howlett and Summers’ behalf. Maybe instead he would’ve told Charles everything was going to be alright, that a tanked career is something that can be eventually recovered from.

Maybe it’s best he didn’t, then, because given how their own careers turned out, what a lie that would’ve turned out to be.

Barton grins. “Steve Rogers, right? He knew exactly what he was doing when he let us escape. But we weren’t working for Fury yet back on the Vulpina. The man can orchestrate but he’s not _that_ good. I hear you’re buddies with Wade.”

If Charles is thrown by the sudden shift of topic, he doesn’t show it. “He’s my bro.”

Even Romanoff flashes a grin at that. “Fury didn’t send us. Believe me when I say I know exactly the kind of paranoid thoughts looping through your heads right now, but we’re not here to hurt you. As far as he knows, you’re both dead. We plan to keep it that way.”

“You’re both in Fury’s back pocket,” Erik says, voice strained, “and you expect us to believe you.” His mind churns over the possibilities. Romanoff and Barton already have nearly every advantage over him and Charles; it will be child’s play for them to incapacitate them both if they feel the need to. But surely the Gandorians would step in if it was clear Erik and Charles had no wish to go with the two bounty hunters? Erik finds it hard to imagine Saran-Mel setting them up like this, and selling them out. Neither Hajeena nor even Turuk-Altiv seem the type either. But what does he really know about Gandorians?

Stupid, he tells himself, you got stupid and lax. You thought you were safe when you should’ve known there will never be a safe place ever again. Now you and Charles will be paying for it.

“Fury’s pockets go deep,” Barton says quietly, “but his aren’t the deepest.”

“Who sent you?” Charles asks, voice steel.

Romanoff’s gaze travels from his to Erik’s, locking eyes with him. “She sends her regards.”

When Erik was in his first year of the Academy, he’d spent an agonizing two weeks waiting for his Thermodynamics I professor to post the grades of the first exam. Though he’d gone into the test confident, by the time he’d left the test he was almost certain he’d failed, which seemed impossible as he’d done everything in his power to study and learn the material, but yet he’d been unable to shake the bone-deep certainty he’d flunked the exam. As his scholarship to the Academy relied upon something close to perfect grades, Erik had been certain he’d already reached the end of the road and spent the two weeks hovering between helpless anger and sinking dread.

He ended up getting the highest score in the entire class on the exam, but didn’t even have the capacity to be smug that time: all he could feel was relief, buoying him up and lifting a weight on his shoulders he hadn’t even realized had settled there. He’d passed. He wasn’t going to fail out of the Academy. His path to the stars was still clear.

It’s the exact same emotion Erik experiences now, his chest loosening and the dull roar of tailspinning thoughts in his head quieting. “Can you confirm?”

Without missing a beat, Romanoff continues to hold Erik’s gaze and speaks in a gently lilting cadence. “Do not go gentle into that good night,” she recites, “old age should burn and rave at the close of day.”

She stops there, but Erik doesn’t need her to go any further. The words are familiar, comforting in a way he never thought they’d have to be. “Rage,” he answers her, his voice quiet but carrying out into the space between them, and Romanoff inclines her head, “rage against the dying of the light.”

The words fall heavily, potent and charged, and there’s a pause of silence. Erik’s mind is whirling. It’s only the first verse of an old First Earth poem, but it’s confirmation enough. Romanoff and Barton watch him unblinkingly, waiting.

“Erik?” Charles says softly.

Erik shoots a glance at Romanoff. She seems to understand, putting a hand on Barton’s shoulder and pivoting around in place like a dancer, pushing his body along too, so that both of their backs are to Erik and Charles, giving them a tiny semblance of privacy.

“I trust you,” Charles says before Erik can ask, “but I don’t trust them.” He’s speaking in Keflan, and for a moment the light, rounded syllables in his gentle accent make Erik’s chest tight all over again. Charles must see it in Erik’s face because he turns his chair so they face each other and squeezes Erik’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I thought it might be better.”

“No, you’re right,” Erik replies in the same language. He very much doubts either Romanoff or Barton, for all their bounty-hunters-turned-spies status, can understand Keflan, so from a tactical standpoint it makes sense: their conversation will be completely private.

It still brings up memories of the Keflars, and Edgar teaching him the language in between bouts of phaser fire in a dry, windy desert so long ago. Of teaching Charles the language himself on the Heartsteel, so as Erik’s Deputy he’d have a better understanding of Raven and her master program. There’d been no time, in the aftermath of the Hejmo’s destruction, when everything had started snowballing from there, for Erik to fully mourn for Edgar and the rest of the Keflars. Speaking their language now feels like a balm on an old, aching wound.

“We can trust them, to a certain extent,” Erik answers slowly once he’s gathered himself. “There’s a game being played here, and I’m willing to play if you are. But if you don’t, say the word and we’ll leave.” He’s fairly certain Romanoff and Barton will let them. Eighty-two percent certain.

“You know who sent them.”

“I do.” Erik doesn’t even want to begin to examine what it means, either, but he owes Charles the truth at the very least. “I’ll explain to you later. Once we’re fully alone. But we’re safe. They’re not going to attack us.”

“I trust you,” Charles says again.

“Still, after all this time?” Erik can’t help but ask, a little self-deprecatingly.

“I don’t trust you blindly,” Charles tells him, giving him a small but still-there smile. It’s hard to reconcile this Charles with the Charles who had been huddled in Erik’s lap all night after waking up from a nightmare screaming; he can put on just as good of an act as Erik can. “I have rather good reason to trust you. Despite what you seem to think, you’ve never intentionally led me astray. You’ve always brought me home.”

For a few moments Erik can’t seem to find his voice. Charles does this to him a lot, he thinks distantly, in the way he’s so quietly profound yet capable of shaking Erik to the core. “I didn’t this time,” Erik says, gritting his teeth so tightly he hears them creak. The Heartsteel is destroyed, her broken parts drifting through empty space and their entire crew, their _family_ , believes they’re dead. They’re billions of light years away from Third Earth and anything remotely like home.

“Anywhere with you is home,” Charles says, reaching up to touch Erik’s face and Erik can’t help but lean into the touch, unclenching his jaw and breathing out, “it’s always just been you.”

“I love you,” Erik says, which is all he’s capable of saying.

In a straight translation from Keflan to Standard, the Keflars technically don’t have a direct way of saying _I love you_ ; their chosen phrase translates to something more like _with you I am not alone_ , an important sentiment for a race that used to wander back and forth across the galaxy, solitary and planetless. Erik supposes it gets the point across just the same, now more than ever.

“I love you,” Charles echoes him gently, and Erik wonders for a single, strange moment if he’ll ever truly be able to perceive the depths to which Charles loves him, or if there’s even a bottom at all. They share another look, and Erik feels himself settle, calming, and then Charles turns his chair forward again to address Romanoff and Barton, switching back to Standard. “What _are_ you here for, then?”

“To get you on your feet again, for one thing,” Romanoff answers smoothly as she and Barton both turn around again, seamlessly breaking off from their own muttered conversation. She tilts her head to the left. “There’s a small gym to the side over there already set up with the equipment necessary for your PT. Clint will be helping you with that.”

“I’ll have you skipping merrily along in no time,” Barton says cheerfully, “and then we’ll rejoin Nat out here.”

“Where I presume Erik will be staying,” Charles says, “doing…?”

“I’m going to kick his ass until he learns how to fight back,” Romanoff says, perfectly pleasant and perfectly serious.

“You can’t be serious,” Erik says anyway, his voice stiff and his hackles raised, “you can’t—”

“Someone has to get you accustomed to using that shiny new toy of yours,” Romanoff answers blithely, nodding down at Erik’s hand. Belatedly he realizes he’s curled it into a fist and lets his fingers go limp again instantly. “I know they teach you what they think qualifies as hand-to-hand combat at that Academy of yours, but it’s not enough. And you know it.” She looks between them both, eyes piercing. “You both need to learn how to fight or otherwise you’re just going to get yourselves killed with certainty next time.”

“Next time,” Charles repeats flatly.

“We’ll get you into tip-top shape,” Barton says smoothly, “but then you’re going to have to make a choice.”

Erik and Charles exchange glances.

X

Five hours later Erik painstakingly slides down the shower wall, his body one single, large ache. Even reaching up to bat pathetically at the panel to dial up the heat so the water will still be hot by the time it reaches the floor makes him give a soft groan, and beside him Charles shivers as the temperature slowly begins to rise, skin pebbling with goosebumps.

Under any other circumstances Erik imagines he’d take full advantage of sharing a shower with Charles, but as it stands Erik barely has the energy to glance down through the steam and water spray at Charles’ cock. The only reason they’re sharing a shower in the first place is because after Romanoff and Barton released them to drag themselves back up to their room, Charles had taken one look at the bathroom door with terrible trepidation.

“I don’t think I have the strength right now to support myself,” he’d admitted hesitantly, soaked with sweat but utterly exhausted. “Could you…?”

“You don’t want me to call for the orderlies?” Erik had asked, well-aware of how Charles barely allows Erik to see him while he changes clothes let alone completely naked and vulnerable as he’s forced to perch himself on the low, built-in bench in their shower stall.

“I’m tired of being touched by strangers,” Charles had answered wearily, “I just want you.”

Despite his own aching, trembling limbs, Erik had been all too willing to agree.

Getting themselves situated had been something of a balancing act, Charles’ legs completely spent for the day and unable to even hold his weight for a fraction of a second, but now Erik leans into Charles’ shoulder and lets out a long breath. The shower floor is hardly the most comfortable place in the galaxy but right now it might as well be for all Erik thinks he wouldn’t be able to move another inch, and as they both couldn’t fit on the bench Charles has opted to sit on the floor beside him, legs still encased in the nerve regenerators stretched out alongside Erik’s longer legs limply.

“I take it she didn’t go easy on you,” Charles murmurs beneath the sound of the spray. He tilts his head sideways so his cheek rests on top of Erik’s head, hair matted down with water.

Blindly Erik fumbles around until their hands are tangled nicely in Charles’ lap. “I have a long way to go until she’s remotely impressed by me.” He and Romanoff had spent the entire duration of their session sparring, and she had kicked his ass several different ways into next week without even seeming to break a sweat. It’d been frustrating, his body not reacting with the same speed he knows it used to be capable of, and by this point he’s intimately familiar with how it feels to have his face smashed into the slightly spongy texture of the huge room’s floor.

Romanoff hadn’t been kicking the shit out of him pointlessly, however. By halfway through their session Erik had recognized how she was drilling him without actually drilling him, forcing him to repeat certain moves in different ways until he was somewhat improved. Romanoff herself is almost breathtaking to watch in motion, every movement carefully calculated and precisely executed even in the heat of a swift exchange of blows, graceful even when sending Erik flying.

Erik knows he’s barely scratched the surface of even getting back into shape, and there’s still a long way for him to go before she actually starts teaching him. But today had felt good. It’d felt good to be moving around, working up a sweat, taking a swing at something, even though nine times out of ten Erik was too slow to even land a blow on her. He hadn’t realized how stir-crazy he’d been getting, unable to blow off any of his worry, fear, or anger through the physical. He’s looking forward to going back tomorrow for more.

“Your poor ego,” Charles mumbles, the words heavy and slurred as if he’s starting to fall asleep. Erik feels that way himself, under the warm flow of water, and tries to make a mental note to not let either of them actually drift off and drown.

“Bruised as the rest of me,” he answers, and Charles huffs out a small laugh. “How was Barton?”

“Knows what he’s doing, as far as I can tell,” Charles says, “though my legs feel about ready to fall off.”

Erik grunts in acknowledgement, cracking one eye open to look down at the pale, freckled expanse of Charles’ thighs. Slowly, deliberately, he brushes his metal hand gently down along the closest one, stopping at Charles’ knee when Charles twitches involuntarily, muscles spasming at the touch.

“How’s your hand?” Charles asks as Erik carefully withdraws it.

“Fine,” Erik says neutrally. In several instances, most likely orchestrated on purpose by Romanoff, Erik had to use his hand to block or deflect her as they’d sparred, not giving him much of a chance to move his metal hand carefully or tentatively—he’d had to use it as he would a normal hand; fast and unthinkingly. It didn’t always work, and he’s got the bruises to show for his hesitations, but he’s glad, in a way, to be pushed into getting used to using it. Hajeena snapping at him only goes so far. “Better.”

“Good,” Charles says, reaching over to take Erik’s metal hand and drawing it back over into his lap again, tangling their fingers together again. Erik takes comfort in the touch, both on metal and his bare skin, shifting over closer to Charles to press his face into Charles’ neck, brushing his lips against his throat and making Charles shiver. It isn’t going anywhere, neither of them remotely up for escalating reciprocation, but it’s nice to simply _be._

“So we’ll keep taking lessons from them,” Erik says quietly, the words filling up the scant space between his lips and Charles’ skin beneath the sound of the water. Erik still doesn’t know how he feels about it, but there’s time. A more limited quantity of it but at least he knows without any doubt Romanoff and Barton aren’t here to drag him and Charles back to the Empire with or without their consent—surprising, given who the two spies are working for, but Erik trusts her. “They’ll get us both back in shape.”

“And their employer?”

“Will let us make our own choice,” Erik says evenly, “on whether we stay or go.”

Charles makes a small considering noise in lieu of an actual answer. Erik doesn’t blame him. “So you can tell me who it is, now?”

“If you’re ready for a secret,” Erik says, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a grin despite himself. It _is_ funny, in the grand scheme of things, and possibly at Fury’s expense too. Erik wraps an arm around Charles, pressing his fingers into Charles’ hip lightly and sits up to whisper in his ear.

Judging by the way Charles gives a small, startled laugh, he agrees.

X

Slowly but surely, they make progress.

Erik still gets his ass handed to him every morning by Romanoff while they spar during Charles’ PT sessions with Barton, but after a mere week Erik can already feel his muscle definition returning, his strength coming back as Romanoff pushes him to his limits again and again. They start off with a run, using the edges of the huge, empty deck as their track, and go around and around the room together, Romanoff tirelessly keeping pace with Erik despite the near foot’s worth of height he has on her. Then when Erik simply can’t run anymore, chest close to bursting and legs quivering, they stop for a drink of water and a brief cool down, and then they spar.

Despite his initial misgivings, Erik’s come to grudgingly like Romanoff—somehow she’s become Natasha, though he can’t remember when. Natasha is unwaveringly calm, even in the face of Erik’s temper on the few circumstances it’s sparked up, unimpressed by his show of frustration or anger. She knows when to press him harder, and when to back off.

She understands Erik needs to come at her, without any finesse or technique. She never asks yet somehow seems to know it’s not really her who Erik wants to destroy, and allows him to attack anyway. She brings him down to the floor just as ruthlessly and efficiently as always, stopping just shy of breaking any bones or spraining any muscles or joints.

“Get up,” she’ll say, utterly calm and usually not out of breath even while Erik lies on the ground gasping for it, “we’re not done here.”

Sometimes Erik snarls at her, other times he doesn’t have the energy to speak. But each and every time he hauls himself back up to his feet and falls into the ready position, and they start again.

Erik doesn’t ask either but he can sense Natasha knows exactly how he feels, knows intimately the sort of helpless anger that can only be worked off physically. It’s in the way she moves, the way she studies him silently when they stop for a breath, never condescending or sympathetic.

She’s been in his place before. She’s gone through things. It makes it easier for Erik to have the shit kicked out of him, to trust her to know when to stop and when to dismantle him completely.

They don’t talk much. Erik doesn’t know what to say beyond what she can probably read clear as daylight on his own face or body movements, and Natasha seems to be content with keeping silent, aside from when she points out corrections to his stance or his form.

It isn’t uncomfortable. He’s gleaned enough to see she has a sense of humor nearly on par with Charles’, all sly looks and quirked eyebrows and pursed lips when she’s trying not to smile at something Barton’s said or done, or when she’s teasing Erik about how slow his reflexes have gotten.

“A Sarlacc digests its food at a faster rate than you move,” Natasha tells him once after ducking around another one of his blows, “it’s really pathetic, Lehnsherr.”

Erik wants to snap back an equally disparaging insult but he’s too busy defending against Natasha’s lightning fast, rapid-succession retaliation blows as she switches from defensive to offensive. Her motions are a blur and it’s like fighting someone with six arms rather than only two, and try as he might Erik can’t keep up, hissing in pain as she strikes at his chest and shoulders, forcing him back towards the wall. They’re only taps—it’s been clear from the start she’s capable of caving his ribs in if she wanted to—but they still sting and leave behind dark, mottled bruises that ache for days, especially since he’s compounded an entire week’s worth of them.

Frustrated, Erik forgoes blocking her and grabs her left wrist, succeeding mostly out of sheer luck than any real skill. Natasha doesn’t hesitate, hitting him with her right hand in the solar plexus and knocking the breath from his lungs. His grip fails and while he’s left standing there, winded, Natasha pulls her wrist out of his fingers grabs his arm with both hands, pivoting sideways and dropping down to dig her shoulder into his stomach. Still dazed, Erik has no time to react and his feet leave the floor as she hurls him up and over herself, and Erik crashes to the ground with an ugly _splat_ on the other side of her while Natasha slowly straightens and casually cracks her neck.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, eyebrows raised. “We’re not playing punching bag right now, Lehnsherr. When we spar, do it right.”

“You aren’t human,” Erik mutters, trying to rearrange himself on the ground so his sprawl is a little more dignified. His muscles scream in protest, but he manages to get himself up into a crouch wearily.

She shows her teeth in a grin. “That makes two of us, doesn’t it.” She offers him a hand. “Get up. My goal is to get you on par with the speed of a Hutt today.”

Erik sneers but takes her hand, and not for the first time he finds himself thinking curses to himself aimed at Natasha’s employer for knowing the exact kind of personality he needs opposite of him to buffer out the rougher edges of his own.

Charles’ progress is more halting.

Physically, he’s improving even more steadily than Erik is. Erik never intrudes on the PT sessions—Natasha keeps him plenty preoccupied—but he knows they’re excruciating, and Barton puts Charles through the wringer on a daily basis. Sometimes Charles can barely move afterwards, not even wanting to go through the process of taking a shower as soon as they return to their room. Erik makes him, even though his own limbs usually feel like they’ve been liquified too by the end of the morning, so it’s become a routine for both of them to crash out on the floor of their shower together, taking turns to be the one to reach up with an arm trembling with fatigue to get soap out of the dispenser on the wall.

“I can’t reach it,” Erik announces on one day, arm falling back down limply after a full thirty seconds of straining, “I don’t think I can lift my arm higher than shoulder-height right now.”

“Pity,” Charles answers, leaned against Erik’s other side and doing absolutely nothing to help, “it appears we’ve met our match at last. Good thing no one from the Fleet can see us now, it’s almost embarrassing.”

Erik snorts when he sees Charles’ faint grin, and the dull ache inside his chest stemming from the loss of the Heartsteel eases a little more.

At the end of the third week, the Gandorian nurses deem it time to remove the nerve regenerators on Charles’ legs after determining the damage done is all but fully healed. Thanks to the PT, Charles’ legs aren’t as scrawny as they normally would be after close to a month of burning off what little fat Charles had to begin with for energy in order to regrow and heal his nerves at an accelerated rate, but it only prompts Barton into upping the ante on their sessions.

Charles buckles down with a grim kind of determination, never complaining. Erik knows Charles is tired of relying on the hoverchair even though he still needs it for now, until he gets his legs wholly back into shape.

Like Erik, Charles’ muscles are returning too, his body less wasted and more alive; his energy levels are up despite his physical exhaustion, and he’s overall less listless and vague, getting back on his feet finally a tangible goal he’s able to actively work towards. Next to Erik on the shower floor or curled up with Erik in bed, he feels more solid, his appetite finally increasing enough to where he’s gradually eating larger and larger meals.

He doesn’t accompany Erik down to the cafeteria anymore, as a silent agreement unspoken between them, but he’s still determined to make the trip to Saran-Mel’s office for his daily appointments in the afternoons. Erik hasn’t seen another Nyrulian since the incident in front of the elevators, even when he makes solo food runs to bring back lunch or dinner, and secretly he’s relieved. He doesn’t know what he’d do, right now, if he ran into them again. Charles may be ready to forgive and forget, but Erik’s not sure he’s capable of either.

On the days Barton’s worked him too hard and Charles just can’t move another inch, Saran is still perfectly willing to visit their room instead. Erik leaves them to it and goes to bother Hajeena, pleased he can finally give her solid, tangible proof he’s getting better at using his hand. Hajeena isn’t impressed, and gives him all manner of small exercises to do with his hand involving little weights or colored shapes that remind Erik of stress balls which supposedly help keep his new, bioengineered nerves calibrated properly.

“My expertise and efforts are wasted on you,” Hajeena says flatly one afternoon, “you’re only using it to hit people with, you’re not actually _using_ it. I should take my hand back and give it to someone who will appreciate it and actually use it as it was meant to be used.”

“Teach me how to say fuck off in Gandorian,” Erik says absently, focusing intently on touching each of his metal fingertips to his thumb. For the most part he’s now comfortable enough with using his hand and arm again in tandem, like in sparring, where he doesn’t have time to think about it, but finer motor control with his fingers and palm still make him break out in cold sweat. Even right now he can feel the rest of his nerves buzzing with anxiety as he shakily flexes his fingers forward one by one.

“Maybe I should,” Hajeena says blithely as she goes back to sorting through the tangled mess of wires in front of her belonging to another prosthetic, “then I’ll have good reason to kill you since it is forbidden.”

“I’m touched you’re waiting for a good reason,” Erik says dryly.

“Rotate your thumb in a full circle next,” she snaps irritably, lowering her diagnostics mask over her face with the clear intent to ignore him completely while she does repairs, but later when it’s time for Erik to leave she gives him a sharp cuff on the shoulder and tells him to come back the next day.

Nights are another matter entirely. Charles tosses and turns all night long if he doesn’t wake up in cold sweat, shaking and unable—or perhaps unwilling—to speak about what he dreams of, even though Erik has a pretty good idea of what it is. But going back to sleep is always out of the question once he’s awake. More than once, Erik has drifted back off to sleep with his head in Charles’ lap while Charles stays up and reads one of the tablets they’ve borrowed from the library deck, and he’s still awake by the time Erik wakes up at the beginning of the next day cycle.

Erik knows Charles is tired, however, and some days Barton has to call their sessions off early when Charles’ legs give out sooner than expected from sheer exhaustion, and the two of them come out to watch Natasha and Erik spar.

When Erik brings it up, Charles vehemently refuses the idea of sleeping hyposprays. He shuts down any conversation pertaining to his sleep habits, and while Erik knows Charles is snappish because he hasn’t slept properly in days, Erik’s natural temper begins to come to a boil by the second week of Charles ignoring logic and outright refusing to take something to help him sleep.

“What do you want me to do?” Erik explodes at last one night after a particularly long day. Natasha had thrashed him thoroughly earlier after Erik had slipped up and fallen back into a pattern of avoiding using his metal hand, and he hadn’t even felt up to facing Hajeena in the afternoon. He’s sore, his pride is dented, he’s tired, and he’s at his wit’s end as far as Charles is concerned. “You won’t sleep, and you shoot down every idea I come up with to help. It’s affecting your PT, which I can tell is bothering you but nothing’s going to change if you _don’t sleep._ ”

“There’s nothing you _can_ do,” Charles answers coldly, eyes narrowed. He looks terribly small where he sits against the headboard of their bed, propped up by pillows. The glow of the tablet screen in his lap casts strange shadows across his face. “There’s nothing you should be doing, because it doesn’t involve you.”

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Erik snarls, but Charles cuts him off.

“You’re not my boss anymore, Erik,” he says, voice rising but beginning to waver even as he plows on, “and I thought we’d gotten past this weeks ago but evidently not. It’s not your problem. Leave it alone.”

“And what, leave you alone?” Erik says sarcastically. “ _There’s_ a solution. I’ll start sleeping in the lounge area, how’s that, or you can leave, and go sit in the library every ni—”

“If my not sleeping bothers you so much, then I _will_ go sit in the—”

“What _bothers_ me is that you’re not even trying t—”

“You think I don’t see through this?” Charles half-shouts, stunning Erik into silence. Charles laughs, but it’s an ugly sound, mirthless and jagged like a blade. “You’re rather transparent, Erik, in case you’re unaware. Do you think I haven’t noticed you’re having nightmares too? Do you think I don’t see it when you wake up with tears in your eyes? Do you think it doesn’t bother me just as much that you won’t talk to me, or Saran, or _anyone_ , because you sure as hell aren’t talking to Hajeena?”

There’s a ringing silence following Charles’ outburst, and across the room Erik stands stock-still, as if moving will break some kind of barrier and then everything will come crashing in at once: Charles’ words and their terrible truth will have real meaning, and will able to sink in beneath his skin and take root.

“You keep going along acting like you’re fine, and that I’m the only one in denial,” Charles says, quieter now, his voice hoarse, “when you’re not fine, Erik. You’re the furthest _thing_ from fine. And that’s _okay_. But not dealing with your problems in favor of focusing down on mine like it’s your life mission to fix me isn’t going to help either of us.”

Erik continues to stare at him. There’s a trembling in his chest, cold like snow and then hotter than a furnace, like part of his cavity is quietly imploding, all the mass squeezed out of him into blank nothingness. He thinks back on the progress he thought he’d been making over the past few weeks and sees it for what it really is: nothing. He’s been trying to run through quicksand; he hasn’t moved a single inch forward. He’s been sinking in place, barely keeping his head above the surface. The harder he struggled, the faster he sank.

Focusing on Charles made it easier to disregard his _own_ nightmares keeping him up, and pretend it didn’t matter he hasn’t come close to finding equal footing with Natasha despite nearly a month, now, of sparring together; tell himself the reason he’s still barely able to use his metal hand is the long recovery period and not his own mental block. His _fear_.

“You’re not a War-Prince anymore, Erik,” Charles says heavily, and he sounds exhausted, looks exhausted, like all the weight of the galaxy is back on his shoulders. “This isn’t a matter of hiding that you’re emotionally compromised so you’re still considered fit for duty. You told me it was alright for me to not be okay, so why shouldn’t it be for you?”

“What do you—what do you want me to say,” Erik says when he’s able to unglue his teeth from where they’re locked together, the trembling in his chest somehow getting louder and louder, “what _is_ there for me to say? That I—that I—” The words stutter and won’t come, but Charles looks at him like he knows.

There’s a long list of things Erik could talk about, all of them residing in the little box he keeps buried down inside him; a black box of human emotion, Logan and Scott would call it, easy for Erik to ignore or eject entirely as it suits him, only now the box has gotten too full, its hinges too strained, and it’s ready to burst. He’s still afraid to fully use his new hand, he’s terrified of the Nyrulians somehow taking Charles away, of Charles going somewhere Erik can’t follow this time. He lost his ship and his crew and the Keflars and his parents—

“You have to stop carrying it around like this, Erik,” Charles says. He’s visibly tired but so, so intent, watching Erik like he can see down into the very core of him. “Maybe talking about it to a stranger isn’t your thing, but you have to drain the poison somehow. You can’t keep trying to go on like this. _We_ can’t go on like this.”

Somehow Erik’s back at the edge of the bed, and Charles is already reaching for him as he climbs up onto the mattress, which they’ve both done a hundred times now but the novelty of being able to tuck himself in around Charles and crush him close will never grow old, will never lose the sliver of awareness between them on how close they’d come to never having this at all.

Charles leans into him, and the trembling in Erik’s chest subsides, not close to being fixed—it’s going to take a lot more than just this, but it’s a start—but back down to a manageable feeling, not so overwhelming or potentially destructive.

“I love you, Erik,” Charles whispers, “but you have to let me help you too.”

Charles has told Erik a lot about himself over the years, more inclined to explain parts of himself and his past as a natural expression of his personality, whereas Erik was more inclined to listening, quietly soaking Charles in like the rays of a star. He can change that, though. He’s told Charles some things, out of necessity or sometimes awkwardly offered up in exchange for all the personal information Charles has divulged, but he’s never given Charles close to the same amount. He’s never given Charles the entire picture.

He can’t imagine ever wanting to give it to anyone else.

“My earliest memory is of my mother,” he starts, a little hesitantly, “she would read me poetry every night before bed. I can still hear her voice.” His voice unrecognizable to his own ears, but Charles is a warm, familiar weight settled against him, and soon Erik forgets about everything except what he’s remembering aloud anyway, something dangerously like peace settling in the hollow cavity in his chest.

X

Natasha’s gaze flicks up and down across him the next morning while Erik watches Charles disappear into the smaller side room with Barton. He’s tired; he didn’t sleep last night, though not because of his nightmares or Charles’—his throat is sore. He’d done a lot of talking.

“Are you done punishing yourself?” she asks him, and the question can be taken as a joke, as a pointed way to reclaim his wandering attention.

But Erik thinks she knows, has been able to see all his exposed edges ever since the first day just as easily as she’s able to read through his weak defenses when it came to sparring. She’s not Charles, but maybe Erik’s not as tightly contained as he thought he was.

He knows better now. He doesn’t have to be.

“I’m ready.”

X

“You can type up these design reports, too,” Hajeena says absently, tossing her personal tablet filled with her messy scrawl into Erik’s lap, and Erik sighs but pulls over an editing screen, both hands hovering over the touchscreen keys.

 

X

They come across the Nyrulians in the hallway one afternoon, on the way back from Saran-Mel’s office. There are plenty of other people around in the busy corridor but for a moment it feels like it’s just Erik and Charles and the group of five tall Nyrulians, staring at each other from across the way. Erik hears Charles draw in a shaky breath but he doesn’t move, so neither does Erik, watching and waiting.

The Nyrulians part ranks, stepping aside as one, and Erik realizes there’s a child, a young Nyrulian, no taller than a human child. He or she—it’s impossible for Erik to tell—walks forward towards them with slow, measured steps, while the adults watch unblinkingly, even the tentacles surroundings their mouths absolutely still.

The child comes to a stop in front of them and Erik can’t help it, he tenses, uneasy for no reason but unable to ignore the silent alarm bells going off inside his head, but without looking Charles reaches back and puts a hand over Erik’s where it rests on the back of the chair, and Erik calms, breathing out.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says softly to the young Nyrulian, who extends one long, spindly arm, holding out a small, purple flower, most likely delicately plucked from one of the bushes in the gardens deck.

Tentatively, Charles places his free hand on top and they clasp hands, flower petals caught between their palms. Erik breathes in again, and out once more, but looks away. He’s not ready to forgive the Nyrulians, but he won’t stop Charles, if this is what Charles wants.

“We are too,” he hears the young Nyrulian say in her raspy little voice, tentacles carefully parting around the syllables, and for the first time in days, Charles smiles.

 

X

 

When neither of them can sleep and they lie awake together through the long, dark hours of the night cycle, Erik starts teaching Charles the poems his mother used to recite to him, and somehow the gentle lilt of Charles’ voice speaking the same familiar verses softly as they curl around each other beneath the sheets makes the shadows a little less heavy, a little less dark.

X

Two months into their training Erik’s finally floored Natasha for the very first time when he glances to the side and discovers Charles and Barton have come out to watch them today, only Charles isn’t sitting in his chair. He’s standing up, one hand on Barton’s solid shoulder for support but when he sees Erik looking he grins, pleased, and lets go to take a few careful steps towards him.

Erik’s there to catch him when his shaky legs finally do give out, and Charles falls into his arms with a small laugh, smile gone rueful. “I’ll still need to use a cane for a little while,” he explains while Barton slides past them to offer Natasha a hand up, “but it’s a start. I can walk again.”

“It’s a start,” Erik echoes him absently, sparing half a thought as to how long Charles has been keeping his progress a secret in order to surprise him, but then he’s kissing Charles, heedless of their audience or how they’re both covered in sweat.

All that matters is Charles, _Charles Charles Charles_ , and for the first time since they left behind the doomed bridge of the Heartsteel, it feels like they've finally, finally gotten their footing back.

 

 


	8. Epilogue - We never left the fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous, NSFW artwork included in the text courtesy of the lovely **garnetquyen**! You can view her original, rebloggable post [here](http://garnetquyen.tumblr.com/post/77744829004/i-promised-pangeasplits-space-pornz-as-reward-for).
> 
> Thank you all for continuing to stick with us here in the _Space Oddity_ universe! We feel incredibly lucky so many of you have come to love these AU 'verse characters as much as we have. Right now we don't know when any future installments will be happening, but we hope to wrap things up one day!
> 
> See you, space cowboys~

 

The lights in the room are dimmed to 25% so the comm pad in Erik’s hand is bright against the relative gloom, making his vision dance with spots any time he happens to glance away. He sits with his back against the wall, one leg pulled up to balance the pad against while he scrolls slowly through the content on the screen.

It’s quiet here on the more secluded end of the base, with no sounds coming from the hallway outside, so Erik can hear Charles’ slow and steady breathing where he sleeps curled on his side and pressed up alongside Erik’s other leg that still lies flat against the sheets, his head and face in the vicinity of Erik’s hip. There’s only a small furrow in Charles’ brow, every inhale and exhale deep and even, but Erik still keeps an eye on the timestamp in the bottom corner of his screen. It’s only a matter of time.

Twice now he’s caught himself reaching down instinctively towards Charles, with the intent of running his fingers gently through Charles’ hair, or perhaps to smooth away that furrow, before he stops himself. Charles is on his left side.

Charles shifts in his sleep with a small, involuntary sound, eyes tracking back and forth rapidly beneath their lids. Erik lets the comm pad slide out of his lap as he shifts on the bed, turning on his side to face Charles fully, though he props himself up on one elbow. Charles falls quiet and still again but Erik merely watches him, reaching forward with his right hand to gently brush silky brown hair off his forehead.

Behind him the comm pad shines in the dim light, his and Charles’ blank, empty faces staring up at the ceiling from where their computer-rendered portraits sit above the Starfleet announcement of their funerals.

Once he’s certain Charles has settled and whatever dream he was having has run its full course, Erik reaches back behind himself and feels around for the comm pad, groping blindly through the sheets until his fingers close around cool plexiglass. He brings his arm back down around Charles’ back loosely, propping the pad up against a pillow so he can see the screen over Charles’ head.

The funeral announcement is still open and Erik scrolls through the text slowly, skimming the words without really reading them. There’s a brief paragraph for each of their careers both at the Academy and as officers in the Fleet. The criminal charges against Charles have been dropped. No mention is made of Erik’s own AWOL period. He wonders which of the brass had advocated for them. Perhaps they have Rogers and Stark to thank for this too, on top of everything else.

Their funerals are scheduled for tomorrow, a small military joint service that is oddly gratifying, in a distant and nebulous way: he and Charles sent off together, even though nothing was ever official about them save for their long-standing professional relationship tacked onto their Academy friendship. Erik wonders if Scott or Logan or any of the rest of their crew will attend, or if they’ve already been discharged from the Fleet.

But no, they wouldn’t have been discharged. Emma gave him her word. Hopefully by now, with several weeks gone by, they’re all already recommissioned and off in deep space again. Certainly Fury can’t afford to discharge an entire ship’s worth of people, not when war with the Nyrulians is no longer looming—it’s fully arrived, and Fury’s going to need as many people, as many _soldiers_ , as he can get.

Soldiers, Erik thinks, glancing down at the top of Charles’ head. His hair is messy with sleep, endearingly tangled and askew.

He’s let the comm pad sit too long so the screen has gone dark, leaving him staring blankly at his own reflection in the polished glass. He doesn’t think he looks much like the blank-faced portrait on his funeral announcement. The Charles in the picture looks worlds different than the actual Charles does too, portrait-Charles’ cheeks rounder and his eyes brighter. The real Charles is leaner, a shadow in his eyes Erik isn’t sure will ever go away, even when he’s smiling. He’s changed. They both have.

Erik taps the screen once with his finger, lighting up the glass and blocking out his reflection. He slowly closes out of the news page and finds himself staring instead at the home screen, the device waiting patiently for him to type in a command. There are probably games somewhere on its drive, but it’s hard to want to play a game after reading his own obituary. He lets the pad drop back down flat on the bed, its screen going dark again.

Charles shifts, and Erik hears him grind his teeth, his subconscious refusing to allow him a restful night cycle’s sleep, though at least he’s getting more hours in than he was even a week ago. Erik has him timed to about five hours flat before some form of nightmare will kick him up out of sleep. It’s progress.

Since Charles has proved he’s well on his way to walking, the Gandorian nurses have officially discharged them both from all hospital services, which means they’d had to move out of their little room in the recovery ward and onto one of the housing decks. Saran-Mel had pulled a few strings, however, and gotten them a small suite in one of the less-populated levels. Erik’s nearly reminded of the StarFleet family housing on the Es-Bee Radium, which he’d been given a tour of once when he’d been a newly promoted officer—everything is small, but built for comfort along with the near-ruthless Gandorian need for maximum efficiency.

They’ve only been living in these rooms for a short while, but Erik knows they can’t stay. Charles is steadier on his feet every day, relying less and less on his cane for balance. He and Barton—who, like Natasha, has somehow become Clint—have joined Erik and Natasha out in the large arena-like room full time now. Erik has taken to training with Clint, while Natasha works with Charles to get him up to speed on the techniques she’s been drilling into Erik. Erik thinks it will take Charles less time than he did to be able to floor Natasha, once he’s gotten his full mobility back.

Then they’ll have to decide what’s next. Where they’ll go. What they’ll do. They haven’t talked about it aside from agreeing they can’t just stay here in the Gandorian base, but Erik’s already decided it’ll be up to Charles, ultimately. Erik will go wherever Charles goes.

Charles shifts uneasily again, and Erik tells himself _you have a hand_ , and reaches down with his left hand carefully, running metal fingers gently through Charles’ hair. He still has to think about using the prosthetic sometimes, like right now when the situation calls for delicate touches, but his hesitancy for things like sparring or handling utensils or tools is all but gone. Just like with Charles’ legs, it’s only a matter of time until Erik forgets he’s lost a hand in the first place.

And then that will be that. They’ll be healed, in the physical sense. Erik tries to remember what it felt like, standing on the edge of the transship bridge between Wade and Loki’s ships, exhausted and in immeasurable pain, using the last of his fading strength to hold Charles in his arms. It already seems like centuries ago.

Charles shudders abruptly awake, tensing all over where he’s curled. Erik carefully withdraws his hand, sitting still and giving Charles room to wake up fully and come back to himself. It takes him less and less time every day.

“You’re up early,” Charles mutters groggily in greeting, turning his face sideways to peer up at Erik with one bleary eye.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Erik says with a small shrug.

Charles makes a small noise of consideration, picking himself up only far enough to immediately snuggle into Erik’s side, a sleep-warm mass pressed comfortingly close. Erik shifts to get his arm around him, picking up the tablet with his other hand while Charles puts his head on Erik’s shoulder.

“Our funerals are today,” Erik says, turning the screen on to show Charles the announcement.

Stifling a jaw-creaking yawn, Charles remains otherwise silent as he skims down through the short article. “Took them long enough,” he says at length, “shouldn’t they have given us a sendoff weeks ago? Kind of left our hypothetical bodies hanging.”

“I don’t think there would’ve been anything left of us,” Erik points out dryly. The ache is still there, whenever anything to do with the Heartsteel comes up, but the bite of it no longer stings. “HQ probably had to decide whether or not to award us in death or not,” he continues, and Charles hums in agreement. “On top of having to deal with a brewing war, too.”

“Details,” Charles says idly, and Erik snorts. Charles threads his fingers through Erik’s metal ones. “What’s our schedule for today?”

“Training in three hours,” Erik reports dutifully, “followed by our ritual drowning in the shower.” Even with Charles’ increased mobility, they’ve kept up with their shared shower. Their bathroom here in their suite is still tiny, but the shower stall itself is slightly roomier than the one in their hospital room. “You’re not seeing Saran today so it’s the gardens deck with Tshaka and her mother.”

The young Nyrulian and Charles have become fast friends, so they’ve fallen into a routine of playing with her every couple days, since Charles has gone down to every-other-day appointments with Saran-Mel. Tshaka seems cognizant of Charles and Erik’s hang ups involving her people, and almost against his will Erik has come to be cautiously fond of her.

Her willingness to meet with them and her child’s eagerness to befriend them has certainly lifted some of the shadows out of Charles’ eyes, but Erik holds himself aloof. He’ll accompany Charles, and sit with them as they talk, but he still can’t bring himself to be friendly with the Nyrulians.

Sometimes Erik has to get up and leave in the midst of conversation, and take a walk down one of the winding paths through the lush gardens by himself until his vision has stopped tunneling and his hands have stopped shaking, but Tshaka and her guardian of the day always seem to understand. They’re in the process of healing too.

“Library today, actually,” Charles says, “I promised I’d teach her a little art history in exchange for the music lesson we got last time.”

“I’m not sure that counted as music,” Erik admits, and smiles when Charles butts his forehead against his shoulder. “We don’t have anything planned for afterwards, though. I was thinking we could go to the aquarium, or…” He trails off what he hopes is enticingly.

“Are you asking me out on another date?” Charles asks with a thin smirk, and then he shifts, ducking out from the arm Erik has around his shoulders and moving to slide into Erik’s lap, straddling Erik’s legs while Erik tosses the tablet aside. “I could be convinced.”

“Our last few haven’t been so bad,” Erik points out, which he thinks is true. They’ve had a couple days off here and there from having their asses handed to them by Natasha and Clint, and mostly they’ve used them to explore the base together, wandering through the decks at leisure. He runs one hand up the long ridge of Charles’ spine, feeling out the planes of his back. “Improvements on our first one.”

“Better and better,” Charles agrees, amused. He leans forward and kisses Erik softly, slow and sweet. Erik’s eyes flicker shut and he lets Charles take the lead, hands settling at Charles’ waist and fingers fanning out along his hips, holding him deftly in place while they kiss. Charles wraps his arms around Erik’s neck and deepens the kiss, and soon Erik can feel his cock slowly hardening in his pants as Charles deliberately grinds against him.

“Charles, I—” Erik has to break off to breathe, flushed, his one natural palm clammy where he squeezes Charles’ hips gently. They’ve kissed plenty of times in the past few weeks, but even with all the showers they’ve shared neither of them has ever made a move towards more. “Do you—?”

“I do,” Charles answers, whispering the words against Erik’s lips. He cards one hand through Erik’s hair, giving him another swift kiss. “Please, Erik.”

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Erik cradles Charles against his chest, saying, “You don’t have to beg me, Charles,” before he leans forward and bears Charles down against the bed.

It takes them a small eternity to strip out of their sleepwear, pausing in between each lost article to kiss and touch, Erik ranging above Charles and determined to catalogue every inch of the impossible, beautiful man beneath him. Charles’ hands wander continuously, feeling out every edge of Erik’s newly redefined muscles appreciatively, and he laughs when Erik pauses long enough from licking a careful circle around one of Charles’ nipples to point out Charles is just as defined too.

“It’s true,” Erik says, smoothing one hand across one of Charles’ solid biceps, “I’m not the only one who’s been through intensive training.”

“I guess I have lost the—” Charles breaks off to take a sharp breath as Erik goes back to his ministrations, sucking Charles’ nipple into his mouth, “—scientist—body—”

Erik hums in agreement, and Charles shudders beneath him, gasping and squirming and losing all track of thought.

They both have to pause in order to wrestle their pants the rest of the way off, but then they’re finally both fully naked, and it’s nothing but the soft glide of skin-on-skin as Erik lowers himself back down on top of Charles. Charles gazes up at him through the dim light, cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide, and they groan together in unison as their cocks brush, leaking with precome and already sticky. The sound grinds its way up out of Erik’s throat, and he’s nearly lightheaded with arousal, heart fit to burst with how much he loves Charles, burying his face against Charles’ neck as they rock together.

Charles moans against Erik’s shoulder, his hands running restlessly up and down Erik’s back. Erik is careful not to rest any of his weight on Charles’ legs, knees planted widely enough for both of Charles’ to fit between. His cock is caught somewhere between Charles’ hip and flat stomach and Erik rocks his hips down, moving almost helplessly against him while hot pleasure washes through him in waves. He can feel the hot length of Charles’ cock pressed against his own stomach, and he shifts over just far enough to rub their cocks together again, Charles’ hips snapping up with an aborted whimper.

Erik had forgotten how good this could feel, not just the sex or the toe-curling drag of another body against his own, but that he’s doing it with Charles, who seems fine-tuned to react to Erik’s every motion, gasping and sighing beneath him. They’ve really only slept together a tiny number of times, their relationship still so startlingly new despite how it seems like they’ve been together forever now—and they have, but just not intimately. They still share a practiced ease, moving fluidly as they shift together on the bed, Charles lifting one leg to wrap around the back of Erik’s while Erik mouths softly at his throat, head tilted back and panting as Erik kisses his fluttering pulsepoint.

“Is there anything we can use,” Charles gets out in a breathy rush, body still straining upwards towards Erik’s even as he paws clumsily at Erik’s shoulders to get him to sit back. “I want you to fuck me, Erik.”

Erik sits back only far enough to crush their lips together, unable to respond with words. Charles indulges him, sighing into the kiss and stroking his hands down along Erik’s sides, dragging his fingers across Erik’s ribs. Erik shivers, fists clenching where they’re braced on the bed on either side of Charles’ head, and leans back to break their kiss, half-drunk on hormones and arousal.

“Lotion,” he says, and Charles nods encouragingly. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here,” Charles promises, and it takes all of Erik’s strength to pull himself away, carefully climbing off of him and sliding to his feet to make his way across the room on shaky legs.

He only has to dig for a few seconds through the small drawer in the bathroom counter to find the small tube of lotion that came with the supply pack the Gandorians had rationed out to them when they’d moved into these rooms. Clutching it tightly in his metal hand—he spares half a second to feel inordinately pleased with himself for not accidentally squeezing it too tightly and making it burst—Erik wheels around with the intention of heading straight back to bed only to come to an abrupt stop in the bathroom doorway, rooted to the spot and stopped in his tracks by the sight that greets him.

Charles has changed the settings on the bedroom window from opaque to transparent, letting in a wash of color and light from their breathtaking view into deep space. A curling cloud of stardust billows slowly by, an emission nebula of high-temperature gasses that glows in reds from hydrogen, along with purples and deep blues from countless other atoms reacting to the ultraviolet radiation of the system’s star. Charles’ pale skin is bathed in color and starlight where he sits in front of the window, haloed in an ethereal glow, and when he sees Erik he holds out one hand, reaching for him, and Erik goes to him at once.

Back on the bed together, they end up in the same position they started out in: Erik sitting up, only this time with his back against the window, and Charles in his lap, straddling Erik’s thighs. They kiss again, and while at first Erik had missed the view of the nebula, his view of Charles is unparalleled, and this close Erik can see the starlight reflected in Charles’ gaze, the colors of the nebula turning his blue eyes into kaleidoscopes of light.

He is achingly beautiful, and for a moment Erik can hardly breathe.

Charles raises up on his knees over Erik as Erik fumbles with the cap on the lotion, metal fingers clumsy with the mechanism. He squeezes out a large dollop onto his real fingers behind Charles’ back, and then carefully slides one finger down between Charles’ cheeks, tracing around his hole.

“Don’t hurt your knee for this,” Erik murmurs, tilting his head back to look up at Charles.

“I’ll tell you if I get tired,” Charles whispers back, resting his forehead against Erik’s. “Go ahead.”

Erik slides his finger forward into Charles’ hole, digging the fingers of his metal hand into the supple flesh of one of Charles’ asscheeks to hold him open a little. Charles moans, legs trembling slightly, but when Erik hesitates Charles rocks down a little in encouragement, muscles loosening so Erik can slide his finger further up into him.

The lotion eases the way, and Erik makes sure to smooth it everywhere, moving his finger back and forth until Charles feels ready enough for him to add a second finger, pushing in deeper and spreading his fingers wider. Charles gasps against Erik’s temple, breathless, and he kisses Erik’s face everywhere he can reach as he rocks gently on Erik’s fingers.

By the time Erik has three fingers inside him, both of them are panting, and Erik’s wrist is beginning to get sore from the awkward angle but he can’t take his eyes off of Charles; he fucks himself on Erik’s fingers, lifting himself up and down over Erik’s lap, their chests brushing together while Charles’ cock smears precome all across Erik’s stomach. Further down, Erik’s cock strains upwards, and the effort not to come prematurely is nearly painful, the molten-hot arousal pooling in the pit of his stomach threatening to surge up and overwhelm him.

“Charles,” he gasps out, twisting his fingers inside Charles’ ass until Charles sobs, curling forward into Erik helplessly, “I—I need—”

“Now, Erik,” Charles grits out, wrapping both his arms around Erik’s neck and tangling his fingers in the back of Erik’s hair, “I’m ready, I’m ready.”

Gently Erik pulls his fingers out of Charles’ ass, moving his hand down to grip the base of his cock to keep himself from shooting off immediately. Breathing hard, Charles looks down between them and lines himself up, lowering himself down slowly onto Erik’s cock.

Both of them inhale as the head of Erik’s cock catches on the rim of Charles’ hole, mutually holding their breath during the split-second instant where Charles’ muscles resist the intrusion, and then they both breathe out in long, shuddering sighs as Erik’s cock finally slides home and Charles sinks all the way down in one long, hot glide.

“E-Erik,” Charles says, voice trembling, mouth working soundlessly as he adjusts to the pressure, and Erik catches his lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, both of his hands settling on either side of Charles’ ass to hold him, slippery with lotion and sweat.

“I’m here,” he breathes, body tensed beneath Charles, holding himself perfectly still despite how he revels in the hot, tight clench of Charles’ ass surrounding him, “I’ve got you.”

 “Yes,” Charles says, eyes gone soft in the dazzling light, “you do.”

Charles begins to move, working himself up and down on Erik’s cock, and Erik does his best to thrust up to meet him, fingers digging into Charles’ ass hard enough to bruise though Charles doesn’t seem to mind. Every time he drops down and Erik thrusts up, a small sound tears itself free from Charles’ throat, halfway between a gasp and a sob, and Erik drinks it up, kissing Charles like they’re both starving for it, like they’ve run out of air and all they have is the breath left between them.

Charles feels so good, squeezing Erik’s cock with his inner walls and Erik thinks he could die from it, this wonderful, perfect, exquisite torture of Charles wringing every last drop of pleasure out of him, driving them both closer and closer towards the blinding supernova of release.

“You—” Charles gasps out, barely understandable as he rides Erik’s cock, hair matted with sweat but eyes so, so bright, “you—you’re—”

They speed up, losing some of their rhythm but making up for it in a small angle adjustment, Erik hitching Charles up even closer against his chest so he can nail the exact spot inside Charles on every thrust to make him toss his head back and moan, starting to unravel at the seams. Erik’s not sure how much longer he can hold out but he’s determined to fuck Charles to completion, to fuck him so he’ll be feeling it for days, to make him come with his cock untouched.

“Charles,” is all Erik manages to say, the only word he knows, the only name that matters, “Charles, _Charles_ —”

Charles comes with a loud cry, shouting Erik’s name as he splatters them both with hot, sticky come, shaking apart in Erik’s grip. Erik keeps fucking him through it, arms straining as he holds Charles up in place, plunging up again and again into Charles wet hole, snapping his hips forward with all of his strength. Charles moans, folding forward against Erik’s chest as his legs give out, strength totally spent at last.

Erik curls forward again, just like before, gently tipping Charles backwards onto the bed and following him down, cradling him down onto his back amidst the sheets. Charles’ legs sprawl open limply, but his arms stay wrapped around Erik’s neck, and Erik continues fucking him, with nothing more than the now singled-minded purpose of getting himself off.

“Come on, Erik,” Charles whispers beneath him once he’s come back to himself a little, cheeks still flushed and eyes half-lidded with lazy contentment. He rocks his hips up, clenching down around Erik’s cock on every thrust until Erik’s practically seeing stars. “Come for me, darling, come in me—”

With one last moan, Erik buries his cock inside Charles and comes, half-collapsing down on top of him when his arms give out, only just barely catching himself on his elbows. He’s dimly aware of Charles shivering beneath him, jolting at the feeling of hot, sticky come filling up his ass, but then all Erik knows is Charles’ gentle hands stroking his back, petting him soothingly as Charles waits for Erik’s spiralling thoughts to realign as Erik comes back down from the heady rush of release.

For awhile, the only sound filling the room is their gasping pants, Erik’s heart still beating wildly from exertion and adrenaline. When he feels like he can finally move, his cock gone fully soft inside Charles and already beginning to slip out, he carefully lifts himself, pulling the rest of the way out as gently as he can. Charles squirms, protesting weakly, and Erik watches raptly as a small trickle of come leaks out of Charles’ ass, his cock giving a valiant twitch at the sight.

“Come here,” Charles says, and Erik goes, rolling gingerly off of him but immediately sinking down directly beside him, laid out on his back while Charles cuddles up to his side, both of them content to ignore the sticky mess they’ve made of themselves for now.

“I feel…” Erik trails off, unable to find the proper words. Charles’ head rests on his shoulder, one of his legs thrown haphazardly across Erik’s. Erik has one arm around him, holding him close, fingers stroking along Charles’ side.

“Like you’re floating in zero gravity?” Charles suggests, amused, and Erik leans down to kiss him, tasting him one more time.

From where they’re laying on the bed, Erik can see out the window again, and for a few quiet minutes they remain as they are, looking up at the stars and gazing out into the wide galaxy beyond, the final frontier. Soon they’ll have to get up, and drag themselves into the shower if they want to make themselves presentable enough to face Natasha and Clint. But right now it feels good to lie here with Charles, the rightness of being together seeping down into Erik’s very bones.

What are the chances, he thinks, letting his head fall sideways so his nose is just barely brushing against Charles’ hair, one eye still on the window above. Against all the innumerable odds in the universe, they’ve ended up right here, together. Right where they’re supposed to be.

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light,” Erik says softly, the words bubbling up to the surface of his mind and it feels right to speak them aloud, one of the old poems his mother would read to him before bed, as they watch the nebula drift by.

“I have loved the stars too fondly,” Charles answers, steadfast as he always is, whispering the words right above Erik’s heart, “to be fearful of the night.”

X

They step off the elevator hand-in-hand, walking out into the vast, empty deck at the bottom of the Gandorian base. Charles holds his cane in his other hand, but he only needs to lean on it every few steps; his gait gets smoother every day, his legs more and more limber. There’s a small hitch in his step today, but Erik thinks it has less to do with his healing nerves and more to do with this morning than anything else.

Natasha and Clint wait for them near the center of the enormous, empty room, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Clint grins at the polite greeting Charles gives once they’re close enough, and Natasha quirks a smile of her own. Neither of the two assassins have proven themselves immune to the impossible force of Charles. Erik doesn’t blame them.

“This deck is actually called the Danger Room,” she says when Erik and Charles come to a stop together, “and when it’s fully utilized—”

Even as she speaks the air around them seems to shift, and Erik starts as the grey walls melt away until they appear to be standing in a fully-functional, busy Orbit Base station. They could be standing on the Strontium if Erik didn’t know better—actual Starfleet personnel walk past them, hurrying about their tasks with brisk efficiency, and Erik can hear the background chatter associated with a typical Oh-Bee. Beside him Charles looks around slowly, his hand gone tight around Erik’s but otherwise holding steady.

“It can plunge the users into realistic simulations of pre-programmed environments,” Natasha concludes, watching them carefully.

“It feels like we’re actually there,” Charles admits. “Very impressive. How long does it take to program something like this?”

“Not long at all,” Clint says. He reaches up to the side of his head and takes out a small earpiece, and abruptly the Oh-Bee around them flickers and goes out, leaving them in the same empty room that’s grown so familiar in the past few weeks. “This interacts with my brain to set up an environment from my memory. Neat little invention by the Gandorians. But if I can think it up with a few set parameters, the room can create a realistic projection.”

Natasha takes it from him and slides it into her ear, and suddenly they’re standing on one of Second Earth’s icy plains—Erik even has to shiver when a blast of freezing cold air ruffles their hair and clothes, and for a moment he almost wants to wipe snow out of his eyes until he realizes the tiny, perfect flakes really are just part of the projection.

“We can add things, too,” Natasha says, and they watch as the Second Earth Fleet’s ground base blooms upwards out of the snow in the distance, shooting up like bamboo. With each passing second the details on the structures get sharper and sharper until Erik can’t tell it’s a projection or a hologram at all.

“And this technology is called the Danger Room?” Erik asks, a little skeptical.

“It can do more than just make pretty scenery,” Natasha explains. “We can use this deck as a real-time combat simulator for training exercises that Starfleet Academy would cut off its right arm to have access to.”

“You didn’t think we just made you come down here for all the fresh air, did you?” Clint asks, still wearing his lopsided, easy grin. “We can keep sparring, or we can start training for the real stuff. If you’re going to rejoin the fight, that is. I have to tell you, though,” he adds, casual but meaningful, “we’re going to need you. We’re going to need every edge we can get in this war.”

“It’s up to you,” Natasha says. Her stance is relaxed and at ease, but her gaze is sharp and assessing, waiting for their answer. She takes the earpiece out, and the room flickers back to neutral grey again. She tosses it over to Erik, and he reaches out to catch it with his metal hand, fast as lightning. “It’s your choice.”

Holding the tiny earpiece in his palm, Erik exchanges a glance with Charles. A week ago he would’ve been filled with dread, a month ago he would’ve been paralyzed with indecision. Now he’s only calm.

“I go where you do,” he says softly to Charles in Keflan.

Charles studies the earpiece pensively. “They’re counting on us to agree,” he answers quietly in the same language, “they want us to want revenge.”

“But you don’t,” Erik says gently.

“I don’t,” Charles agrees, “but going back means we’re going to be exploited. I know you trust her,” he says when Erik opens his mouth, “and I know we owe her, now. But we’re going to be used as weapons if we go through with this. They’d be fools not to, because they _do_ need us. We’re in perfect position. No one knows we're alive. We're the perfect assassins.”

“Can you live with that?” Erik asks him.

“I barely sleep at night anyway,” Charles answers, a little wry. His eyes are clear when he lifts them to meet Erik’s gaze, no hint of hesitation or fear. “Could we live with ourselves if we didn’t?”

“Our crew,” Erik says, and Charles nods. “Scott and Logan. They risked everything for us.”

“If the Nyrulian Federation continues as it is, Nyrulians like Tshaka and her family will continue to suffer,” Charles says softly, reaching forward to deftly pick up the earpiece sitting on Erik’s palm. “What happened on First Earth could happen again.”

“We can can fight on our own terms,” Erik says as Charles slides the earpiece into his ear. “We can do anything we want.”

“We might not come out of this,” Charles says, and the room around them flickers. They’re standing on the Heartsteel’s bridge now, achingly familiar. Every surface gleams, all the officers’ seats empty but their holoscreens lit up, scrolling through the last set of diagnostics before a launch. Erik can almost feel the engines coming alive, humming quietly and prepared to carry them out into the stars.

“Not a bad price to pay,” Erik says quietly, standing together with Charles on their bridge in front of the captain’s chair. The main viewscreen shows a panoramic view of Third Earth, deep blue while the rest of the galaxy twinkles brightly overhead. Home.

Charles takes a breath. The image around them flickers again, and Natasha and Clint come back into view, slightly displaced on the Heartsteel’s bridge but neither of them look surprised. Charles squeezes Erik’s hand, and switches back to Standard.

“We never left the fight,” he says, pure steel, and Erik loves him, loves him, _loves_ him, “and we’ll be there to finish it.”

 


End file.
